TTTW 


S 

University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
THE  HEARST  CORPORATION 


THE  DANITES: 


OTHER  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 


FROM   THE    WRITINGS   OF 


JOAQUIN    MILLER, 

"  THE  POET  OF  THE  SIERRAS." 


"JL  little  bird 

From  "bunch  of  grass  Hew  sudden  out, 
And  swinging  circled  sharp  about, 
Then  tangled  in  a  spangled  tree, 
And  there,  as  if  the  whole  world  heard, 
Began  its  morning  minstrelsy." 

— THE  BARONESS. 


EDITED     BY 

A.   V.   D.   HONEYMAN. 


NEW    YORK: 

THE    AMERICAN    NEWS    COMPANY, 
1878. 


Copyright,  1877,  by 
A.  V.  D.  HONEYHAN. 


HONEYMAN    &    ROWE,  SMITH    &   McDotTGAL, 

Steam  Printers,  Electrotypers, 

82  Beekman  St.,  tf.  Y. 


TO    ALL    WHO    ADMIRE, 

EVEN    TO    THE    HUMBLEST    EXTENT, 

THE  WRITINGS  OF 

JOAQUIN    MILLER. 


PREFACE. 


ELIEVING  sincerely  that  "the  gardens  of  God"— 
and  I  speak  reverently,  meaning  His  gardens  in 
the  human  soul,  where  is  grown  whatever  is  most 
lovely  in  this  world — in  their  yield  of  flowers  of 
song  have  rarely  given  such  fruitage  as  the  poems  of  the 
"  wild  songster  of  Oregon,"  I  send  forth  this  volume  of  choice 
selections  from  JOAQUIN  MILLER'S  prose  and  verse.  They 
are  choice  in  the  sense  that  they  are  Mr.  MILLER'S  best,  so  far 
as  the  editor's  judgment  could  determine,  although  others 
equally  marked  in  their  beauty  or  originality  have  been  omit 
ted.  To  choose  a  sufficient  number  for  these  pages  has  been 
as  little  a  task,  indeed,  as  to  pluck  a  handful  of  roses  among 
a  thousand  varieties  in  the  King's  Park  ! 

I  am  aware  of  the  merciless  denunciation  of  this  author's 
verse  at  the  hands  of  a  few  American  writers  of  "  book  notices." 
But  time  may  prove  the  first  convictions  of  the  best  English 
reviewers  to  be  correct.  The  London  critics  are  not  usually 
caught  napping !  Let  the  present  generation  in  America  die, 
and  the  next  will  admit  that  the  cross  of  song  may  be  planted 
upon  the  Sierras  as  well  as  the  Alps  or  the  Catskills,  and  that 
Genius  has  no  territorial  limitations  save  that  of  the  most 
ultimate  rim  of  the  universe  of  God. 

What  is  true  poetry  ?  In  one  of  Mr.  MILLER'S  lectures  it  is 
defined  as  a  succession  of  beautiful  pictures,  whether  in  prose 
or  verse.  If  this  be  correct — and  is  it  not? — where  in  all 
American  verse  can  you  find  more  luxuriance  of  imagination, 


VI  PREFACE. 

more  wealth  of  imagery,  than  in,  for  instance,  The  Songs  of  the 
Sunlandsf  And  his  prose  is  nearly  as  full  of  suggestive 
figures,  while  as  simple  and  peaceful  as  the  talks  of  the  Red 
Man,  who  was  his  earliest  friend  and  teacher. 

The  poet  has  a  great,  warm  heart,  and  his  songs  are  invari 
ably  for  Peace  and  Charity.  Some  of  the  "Olive  Leaves," 
gathered  in  The  Songs  of  the  Sunlands,  will  be  found  to  be 
as  echoes  of  that  choir  which  sang,  over  Bethlehem's  plains, 
"Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 

But  let  every  one  be  his  own  judge,  whether  or  not  this 
new  singer  of  the  New  World  is  entitled  to  the  fame  which 
would  seem  to  be  already  secure.  This  book  will  give  him  the 
opportunity  in  the  most  compact  space  possible. 

The  approval  of  Mr.  MILLER  has  been  secured  for  this 
selected  work,  but  he  is  not  personally  responsible  for  its  sug 
gestion,  arrangement,  nor  publication.  Neither  the  selections, 
nor  their  titles,*  nor  the  accompanying  notes  respecting  the 
different  books  from  which  extracts  are  taken,  have  passed  his 
eye  :  he  has  confided  to  the  editor's  judgment.  Accordingly, 
it  has  not  been  deemed  wise,  thus  apart  from  his  revision,  to 
make  even  the  slightest  verbal  corrections  of  some  rhetorical 
faults. 

The  italic  excerpts  on  pages  fronting  the  book-titles  are  all 
from  the  same  author,  with  the  exception  of  the  last. 

That  the  pure,  sweet  melody  of  these  Western  bird-notes, 
the  fresh,  woodland  fragrance  of  these  flowers  of  the  Pacific 
coast,  may  appeal  to  other  hearts  as  they  have  to  mine,  and 
affect  them  as  sensibly  for  good,  is  my  earnest  wish. 

A.  V.  D.  H. 

SOKEKVTLLE,  N.  J.,  Nov.  16, 1877. 


*  In  all  but  rare  instances  the  titles  have  been  supplied  by  the  editor, 
the  selections  being  from  long  poems. 


CONTENTS 


£j>he  Mamies,  and  the  3firL$t 
3fam'Ue$  of  the  $iei$a$. 

PAGE 

Little  Billie  Piper,  ...  1 

A  Question,     .....  1 

King  Sandy,    .....  2 

Limber  Tim,    .....  2 

Bunker  Hill,    .....  3 

The  Miners'  Wash-Day,    .  3 

Washee-Washee,     .     .    »  4 

Washee-Washee  Sentenced,  6 

A  Pure  Woman,  ....  8 

Some  Men's  Characters,    .  8 

$on$  of  the  §i 


A  Storm  on  the  River,      .  11 

In  the  Tropics,     ....  11 

The  Bleeding  Past,  ...  12 

Drowned,     ......  12 

The  Warm  Sea's  Dimpled 

Face,  .......  12 

Loves  of  the  Sun-maids,    .  13 
Death  of  a  Warrior,      .     .13 

Walker  in  Nicaragua,  .    .  13 

Prophecy  of  the  West,      .  14 

After  the  Battle,  ....  14 

Walker's  Grave,  ....  15 

The  Sierras,     .....  15 

The  Sun  on  the  Sierras,    .  15 

The  Upturned  Face,     .    .  16 

Curambo's  Fear  of  Death,  16 

Love  in  the  Cycled  Years,  17 


PAGE 

Into  the  Flame,    ....  17 

The  Morning, 18 

The  Chieftain's  Form,  .    ,  18 

Popocatapetl, 18 

The  Indian  Warrior's  Ad 
dress,  19 

The  Sunset, 20 

The  Night, 20 

Don  Carlos'  Hyperbole,     .  21 
Night    and    Morning    in 

Oregon, 21 

To  be  a  Poet 22 

Nature  in  Unrest,     ...  22 

Longings, 23 

The  Valley, 23 

The  Stream,     .....  23 

Winnema's  Face,      ...  24 

Loving  Winnenia,    ...  24 

A-Faint,  .......  25 

Burning  the  Dead,    ...  25 

Lord  Byron, 26 

To  Robert  Burns,     ...  27 
The  Moon  on  Winnema's 

Hair, 27 

The  Blame— a  Prophecy, .  28 

The  Coffined  Past.   ...  23 

What  Should  Have  Been,  29 

A  Poet  of  Nature,    ...  29 

Woman's  Strangeness,      .  29 

Death 30 

Recollection, 30 

The  Forest  Maiden,     .     .  31 


Yin 


CONTENTS. 


$ong$  of  the  $unlancl$. 

PAGE 

49 

PAGE 

The  Rocky  Mountains,     .     35 

Adieu,     

49 
50 

Tn  flip  T)p«?prt  \VnnH                    ^nl 

50 

Charity,  

51 

The  Knight  Seeking  Love,    36 

53 

The  Song  of  the  Silence,  .     36 
The  Queen  of  the  Amazons,    37 
The  Love  of  the  Trees,     .     37 
Forsake  the  City,     ...     37 
Mountain  Heights,  ...     38 

The  Lost  Knight,     .     .    . 
Musi  c  in  the  Forest,    .     . 
The  Fainting  Knight,  .     . 
The  Storm  Shall  Pass,      . 
The  Origin  of  Man,     .    . 
Gold  

53 

54 
54 
54 
55 
56 

Isles  of  the  Amazons,  .     .     38 

The  Lake 

56 

Amazon  Beauties,    ...     39 

57 

Alone  by  Thee,   ....    39 
Let  the  Earth  Rest,     .     .    40 
Love-lights,    .....    40 
On  and  On  40 

Watching  the  Bathers, 
The  New  Land  of  Song,  . 
Across  the  Continent,  .    . 
The  Lake  and  the  West,  . 

57 
58 
59 
59 

Love-sweets,   41 
At  Night  in  the  Cars,  .     .     41 

The  Sweetest,      .     .    .    . 
Down  into  the  Dust,    .    . 

60 
60 
01 

The  Snow-Capped  Sierras,    41 

At  Bethlehem,     .    .    .    . 

61 
63 

A  Bison-King,     ....    43 

In  Yosemite  Valley,     .    . 
Faith      » 

62 
63 

A  Morn  in  Oregon,  ...    43 
Sunshine  after  the  Storm,    44 
To  the  Red  Men,  Sleeping,    45 
The  Red  Men  Still  Free,  .     45 
Westminster  Abbey,    .     .    46 
The  Indian  Summer,    .     .    46 
More  than  Fair  46 
Look  Starward,  ....     47 

Beyond  Jordan,   .    ... 
The  Last  Supper,     . 
The  Nazarine,      .... 
A  Resting  Place,  .    .    .   .. 
Remembrance,     .    .    .    . 

63 
64 
65 
65 

66 

Hope,     47 

«.                      m  ^      ' 

A  Wanderer    .             .         47 

Amongst  the  y$oaoc$ 

* 

Before  a  Poet's  Shrine.    .    48 
The  Indian-Summer  Even 
ing,      48 

Shasta  Unrivalled,  .    .    . 
Trojan  Miners,     .... 
A  Beaver  Hat,      .... 

69 
69 
70 

Bury  Me  Deep,  my  Beau 
tiful  Girl  <48 

Opposition  to  a  Coin  Cur 
rency,  

71 

A  Coming  Storm,     ...    49 

An  Explosion,      .... 

73 

CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Faithf  ul  Heroine,      .  73 

A  California  Moon,  ...  74 

In  the  Shadow  of  the  Pines,  74 

At  Peace, 74 

Mount  Shasta 75 

Camp  Life  in  the  Wood,  .  76 

Mount  Hood, 76 

An  Indian  Likeness,  .  .  77 
Shasta  and  Hood,  .  ,  .  77 
First  Glimpse  of  Shasta,  .  77 
The  Freemasonry  of  Moun 
tain  Scenery,  ....  78 
A  Glimpse  of  the  Sierras,  78 
From  Mt.  Shasta  to  the 

Stars, 78 

Be  Your  Own  Disciple,  .  79 
The  Winter  Storm  Broken,  79 
The  Real  Hero,  ....  80 
Snow  in  the  Sierras,  .  .  80 
The  Bald-headed  Man,  .  81 
Spring  Disrobing  Win 
ter, .  81 

The  Showy  Rich  Man,      .  82 

Mouths, 83 

The  Indian  Autumn,    .    .  83 
A  Thunder-Storm  in  the 

Mountains, 84 

Sunrise  on  Mt.  Shasta,      .  85 
A  Funeral  in    a   Mining 

Camp, 85 

The  Chain  of  Fortune,     .  86 

Paquita,      ......  86 

The  Night,      .....  87 

The  Indian  Account  of  the 

Creation, 87 

The   Association    of    the 

Dead,  .    .    .    ....  88 

Sunset  on  Mt.  Shasta,  .    .  88 

Climbing  the  Mountains,  .  89 

The  Death  of  Paquita,      .  89 


fphe  $%  in  the 

PAGE 

The  Old  Sea-King,  ...  95 

On  the  River, 95 

The  Sea-King's  Bride,  .    .  95 

A  Great  Soul, 96 

Spring, 97 

Journeying, 97 

"  Take  Men  as  You  Find 

Them," 97 

The  Omaha  of  the  Future,  98 

In  the  Desert,      ....  98 

The  Red  Men's  Cemetery,  99 

Kings  in  Captivity,  ...  99 
To-morrow,     .     .    .    .    .100 

The  Sun  at  Noon-day, .     .  100 

Solemn  Silence,  ....  101 

Dead, 101 

The  Land  of  the  Future,  .  101 

Busy  Bees, 102 

Africa,     .    .    .     .    .    .     .102 

The  Antelope,      ....  103 

The  Dead  African,  .     .    .103 

Solitude,      ......  104 

Misunderstood  Souls,  .    .  104 

The  Little  Isle,    ....  105 

A  Lifted  Face,     ....  106 

To  the  Missouri,  ....  106 

Three  Babes, 107 

Dark-Eyed  Ina,    ....  107 

Unnamed  Giants,     .     .     .  108 

Dead  Azteckee,    ....  108 

The  Boundless  Space,  .    .  110 

Famishing, HO 

The  Little  Maid, ....  110 

The  One  Lost  Birdling,    .  Ill 

(phe  Baroness  of  lew  ¥otjh. 

The    Baroness  —  In    the 
Wood, H7 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

How  the  Night  Came, .  .  118 
The  Sunset  Land,  .  .  .118 
Fire  in  the  Forest,  .  .  .119 
The  Common  Code  of  Men,  120 
Doughal  and  the  Priest,  .  121 
The  Bridal  Kiss,  ....  121 

The  Magnet, 121 

A  Majestic  Mouth,  .  .  .122 
The  Forest  Aflame, .  .  .122 
Adora  in  Tears,  .  .  ,  .  123 
To  Fifth  Avenue,  .  .  .124 
To  Fifth  Avenue  Again,  .  125 

Adora, 125 

Lost  Love, 126 

Your  Middle  Men,    .    .    .126 
Go  View  Fifth  Avenue,    .  127 
On   Rousseau's  Isle — Ge 
neva,  .......  127 

The  Farewell  Letter,    .    .  128 
The    Morning    after    the 
Storm,     .....     .129 

The  White-Girdled  Moon,  130 

Silentness, .130 

The  Worth  of  the  Soul,  .  130 
Woman's  Instincts,  .  .  130 

Copyists, 131 

The  Earth  a  Level  Ball,  .  131 
The  West's  World-Build 
ers,  132 

A  Sad  White  Dove, .    .    .133 
Fair  as  Young  Junos,   .    .  133 
The  Halo,    .    .    .    .    .    .133 

Thank  God,  He's  Dead,  .  134 
Should  I  Desert  Him?.  .  134 
Near,  Yet  Far,  .  .  .  .135 

gongs  of  Italij, 

Rome, 139 

A  Falling  Star,     .    .    .     .139 


PAGE 

Why  Nights  Were  Made,  139 
Christmas  Time  in  Venice,  140 
Morn  in  Venice,   ....  140 

The  Kiss  of  Faith,    .    .    .140 
To  a  Waif  of  the  Street,  .  141 
Sunrise  in  Venice,    .     .     .142 
Lone,  ........  143 

A  Storm  in  Venice,  .    .    .143 
The  Ideal,    ......  144 

And  the  Real,  .....  144 

Longing  for  Home,  .     .     .  145 
To  the  American  Flag,      .  146 


The  Eternal  City,     .    .    .149 
Italy  Tired,      .....  149 

Lake  Como,     .....  149 

Poets,.    .    .    .....  150 

Faces  Change,      ....  150 

A  Suggestion,  .....  150 

A  Perfect  Face,    ....  151 

Do  Not  Drift,  .    .    .    .    .151 

The  Little  Hand,      .    .    .151 
A  Picture,   ......  152 

More  than  Beautiful,    .    .  152 
Be    Silent    and   let    God 
Speak,      ...    .    .    .152 

None  Utterly  Bad,   .    .    .153 
Honor,     .......  153 

Love  of  the  Beautiful,      .  153 
Reputation,      .....  155 

Baby-world,     .....  155 

General  Custer,    .    .    .    .156 

The  Capitol  at  Washington,  157 
True  Merit,      .    .    .    .    ,  157 

Noses,     .....     .    .  157 

The  New  Parnassus,     .    .  158 
Tears,     .......  158 

A  Race  for  Love  and  Life,  159 


THE  DANITES, 

AND 

THE   FIRST   FAM'LIES    OF   THE    SIERRAS. 


THOSE  who  have  read  "  The  First  Fam'lies  of  the  Sierras,"  and  have 
also  witnessed  the  drama  of  u  The  Danites,"  will  at  once  recognize 
the  nearly  perfect  likeness.  They  are,  indeed,  one ;  the  latter  being  sim 
ply  the  former  adapted  to  the  stage.  In  making  the  selections  which 
follow  under  this  title,  the  editor  has  drawn  from  both  the  drama  and 
the  book. 

"The  First  Families"  is  a  semi-autobiography,  like  "Unwritten  His 
tory,"  and  "  The  One  Fair  Woman,"  although  it  may  take  a  keener  eye  to 
detect  the  real  amid  the  ideal.  As  a  specimen  of  California  vernacular,  and 
a  delineator  of  life  in  the  mining  camps,  it  is  probably  not  exceeded  by  any 
of  the  famed  works  of  BRET  HABTE,  although  its  publication  attracted  less 
attention  than  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,o*  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat. 
It  was  partially  written  in  California,  but  completed  in  London  in  1874, 
where  it  was  published  by  George  Rutledge.  In  this  country  its  publishers 
are  Jansen,  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago,  1876. 

"  The  Danites  "  took  its  name  from  those  Mormons  who  were  banded 
together  as  "  Avenging  Angels,"  and  pursued  after  "  the  lost  Nancy  Wil 
liams,"  the  last  of  the  persecuted  family  of  that  name,  so  well  known  to 
Mormon  history.  The  death  of  Brigham  Young  having  revived  the  story, 
additional  interest  is  lent  to  what  will  doubtless  prove  one  of  the  most 
successful  dramas  lately  put  upon  the  stage. 


Is  it  worth  while  tJiat  we  battle  to  humble 
Some  poor  fellow-soldier  down  into  the  dust  f 

God  pity  us  all  f    Time  eftsoon  witt  tumble 
All  of  us  together  like  leaves  in  a  gust, 
Humbled  indeed  down  into  the  dust. 


Little  Billy  Piper. 

jHAT  is  your  name,  my  boy  ?" 
"Billy  Piper." 

The  timid  brown  eyes  looked  up  through 
the  cluster  of  yellow  curls,  as  the  boy 
stepped  aside  to  let  the  big  man  pass'; 
and  the  two,  without  other  words,  went  on  their  ways. 

Oddly  enough  they  allowed  this  boy  to  keep  his 
name.  They  called  him  Little  Billy  Piper.  He  was 
an  enigma  to  the  miners.  Sometimes  he  looked  to  be 
only  fifteen.  Then  again  he  was  very  thoughtful. 
The  fair  brow  was  wrinkled  sometimes;  there  were 
lines,  sabre  cuts  of  time,  on  the  fair  delicate  face,  and 
then  he  looked  to  be  double  that  age. 

He  worked,  or  at  least  he  went  out  to  work,  every 
day  with  his  pick  and  pan  and  shovel;  but  almost 
always  they  saw  him  standing  by  the  running  stream, 
looking  into  the  water,  dreaming,  seeing  in  Nature's 
mirror  the  snowy  clouds  that  blew  in  moving  mosaic 
overhead  and  through  and  over  the  tops  of  the  toss 
ing  firs. 

He  rarely  spoke  to  the  men  more  than  in  mono 
syllables.  Yet  when  he  did  speak  to  them  his  lan 
guage  was  so  refined,  so  far  above  their  common 
speech,  and  his  voice  was  so  soft,  and  his  manner  so 
gentle,  that  they  saw  in  him  a  superior. 


A  Question. 

"  TELL  me,"  said  the  boy,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
arm  of  his  companion,  and  looking  earnestly  and 
sadly  in  his  face,  "  Tell  me,  Tim,  why  it  is  that  they 
always  have  the  grave-yard  on  a  hill.  Is  it  because 


THE  DAJsITES. 


it  is  a  little  nearer  to  heaven  ?"  His  companion  did 
not  understand.  And  yet  he  did  understand,  and 
was  silent. 


King  Sandy. 

THIS  Sandy  never  blustered  or  asserted  himself  at 
all.  He  was  born  above  most  men  of  his  class,  and 
he  stood  at  their  head  boldly  without  knowing  it. 
Had  he  been  born  an  Indian  he  would  have  been  a 
chief,  would  have  led  in  battle,  and  dictated  in  coun 
cil,  without  question  or  without  opposition  from  any 
one.  Had  he  been  born  in  the  old  time  of  kings,  he 
would  have  put  out  his  hand,  taken  a  crown,  and  worn 
it  as  a  man  wears  the  most  fitting  garment,  by  instinct. 
Sandy  was  born  king  of  the  Forks.  He  was  king 
already,  without  knowing  it  or  caring  to  rule  it. 

There  are  people  just  like  that  in  the  world,  you 
know, — great,  silent,  fearless  fellows,  or  at  least  there 
are  in  the  Sierra- world,  and  they  are  as  good  as  they 
are  great.  They  are  there,  throned  there,  filling  up 
more  of  the  world  than  any  ten  thousand  of  those 
feeble  things  that  God  sent  into  the  world,  in  mercy 
to  the  poor  good  men  who  sit  all  day  silent,  and  cross- 
legged,  and  in  nine  parts,  sewing,  on  a  table. 

They  will  not  go  higher,  they  cannot  go  lower. 
They  accept  the  authority  as  if  they  had  inherited 
through  a  thousand  sires. 


Limber  Tim. 

Now  there  was  Limber  Tim,  one  of  the  first  and 
best  men  of  all  the  thousand  bearded  and  brawny  set 
of  Missourians,  a  nervous,  weakly,  sensitive  sort  of  a 
fellow,  who  kept  always  twisting  his  legs  and  arms 
around  as  he  walked,  or  talked,  or  tried  to  sit  still ; 
who  never  could  face  anything  or  any  one  two  minutes 


THE  DANITES.  3 

without  flopping  over,  or  turning  around,  or  twisting 
about,  or  trying  to  turn  himself  wrong  side  out,  and 
of  course  anybody  instinctively  knew  his  name  as  soon 
as  he  saw  him. 

The  baptismal  name  of  Limber  Tim  was  Thomas 
Adolphus  Grosvenor.  And  yet  these  hairy,  half- 
savage,  unread  Missourians,  who  had  stopped  here  in 
their  great  pilgrimage  of  the  plains,  and  had  never  yet 
seen  a  city,  or  the  sea,  or  a  school-house,  or  a  church, 
knew  perfectly  well  that  there  was  a  mistake  in  this 
matter  the  moment  they  saw  him,  and  that  his  name 
was  Limber  Tim. 


Bunker  Hill. 

ONE  day,  Bunker  Hill,  a  humped-back  and  un 
happy  woman  of  uncertain  ways,  passed  through  the 
crowd  in  The  Forks.  Some  of  the  rough  men  laughed 
and  made  remarks.  This  boy  was  there  also.  Lifting 
his  eyes  to  one  of  these  men  at  his  side,  he  said : 

"  God  has  made  some  women  a  little  plain,  in  order 
that  he  might  have  some  women  that  are  wholly 
good." 


The  Miners*  Wash-day. 

BRAWNY-MUSCLED  men,  nude  above  the  waist, 
"naked  and  yet  not  ashamed,"  hairy-breasted  and 
bearded,  noble,  kingly  men  —  miners  washing  their 
shirts  in  a  mountain-stream  of  the  Sierras.  Thought* 
ful,  earnest,  splendid  men !  Boughs  above  them,  pine- 
tops  toying  with  the  sun  that  here  and  there  reached 
through  like  fingers  pointing  at  them  from  the  far, 
pure  purple  of  the  sky.  And  a  stillness  so  pro 
found,  perfect,  holy  as  a  temple !  Nature  knows  her 
Sabbath. 

I  would  give  more  for  a  painting  of  this  scene — 
that  sun,  that  sky  and  wood,  the  water  there,  the 


4  THE  DAKITES. 

brave,  strong  men,  the  thinkers  and  the  workers 
there,  nude  and  natural,  silent  and  sincere,  bending 
to  their  work — than  for  all  the  battle-scenes  that  could 
be  hung  upon  a  palace  wall.  When  the  great  man 
comes,  the  painter  of  the  true  and  great,  these  men 
will  be  remembered. 


Washee-Washee. 

THERE  was  an  expression  of  ineffable  peace  and 
tranquility  on  the  face  of  Washee-Washee  that  twi 
light,  as  he  wended  his  way  from  the  Widow's  cabin 
to  his  own.  .  His  day's  work  was  done  ;  and  the  little 
man's  face  looked  the  soul  of  repose.  Possibly  he 
was  saying  with  the  great,  good  poet,  whose  lines  you 
hear  at  evening  time,  on  the  lips  of  nearly  every  Eng 
lish  artisan — 

"  Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earn'd  a  night's  repose." 

Washee-Washee  looked  strangely  fat  for  a  China 
man,  as  he  peacefully  toddled  down  the  trail,  still 
wearing,  as  he  neared  his  cabin,  that  look  of  calm 
delight  and  perfect  innocence,  such  only  as  the  pure 
in  heart  are  supposed  to  wear.  His  hands  were  drawn 
up  and  folded  calmly  across  his  obtruding  stomach,  as 
if  he  feared  he  might  possibly  burst  open,  and  wanted 
to  be  ready  to  hold  himself  together. 

In  the  great-little  republic  there,  where  all  had  begun 
an  even  and  equal  race  in  the  battle  of  life,  where  all  had 
begun  as  beggars,  this  tawny  little  man  from  the  far- 
off  Flowery  Kingdom  was  alone ;  he  was  the  only  rep 
resentative  of  his  innumerable  millions  in  all  that 
camp.  And  he  did  seem  so  fat,  so  perfectly  full  of 
satisfaction.  Perhaps  he  smiled  to  think  how  fat  he 
was,  and,  too,  how  he  had  nourished  in  the  little 
democracy. 

He  was  making  a  short  turn  in  the  trail,  still  hold- 


THE  DANITES.  5 

ing  his  clasped  hands  over  his  extended  stomach,  still 
smiling  peacefully  out  of  his  half-shut  eyes : 

"Washee!  Washee!" 

A  double  bolt  of  thunder  was  in  his  ears.  A  tre 
mendous  hand  reached  out  from  behind  a  pine,  and 
then  the  fat  little  Chinaman  squatted  down  and  began 
to  wilt  and  melt  beneath  it. 

"  Washee- Washee,  come! " 

Washee- Washee  was  not  at  all  willing  to  come ;  but 
that  made  not  the  slightest  difference  in  the  world  to 
Sandy.  The  little  almond-eyed  man  was  not  at  all 
heavy.  Old  flannel  shirts,  cotton  overalls,  stockings, 
cotton  collars  and  cambric  handkerchiefs  never  are 
heavy,  no  matter  how  well  they  may  be  wadded  in, 
and  padded  away,  and  tucked  up,  and  twisted  under 
an  outer  garment ;  and  so  before  he  had  time  to  say  a 
word  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Widow's  with  Sandy, 
while  Limber  Tim,  with  his  mouth  half  open,  came 
cork-screwing  up  the  trail,  and  grinding  and  whetting 
his  screechy  gum  boots  together  after  them. 

He  reached  the  door  of  the  Widow's  cabin,  knocked 
with  the  knuckles  of  his  left  hand,  while  his  right 
hand  held  on  to  an  ankle  that  hung  down  over  his 
left  shoulder,  and  calmly  waited  an  answer.  The 
door  half  way  opened. 

"  Beg  pardon,  mum." 

He  bowed  stiffly  as  he  said  this,  and  then  shifting 
Washee- Washee  around,  quietly  took  his  other  heel  in 
his  other  hand,  and  proceeded  to  shake  him  up  and 
down,  and  dance  him  and  stand  him  gently  on  his 
head,  until  the  clothes  began  to  burst  out  from  under 
his  blue  seamless  garment,  and  to  peep  through  his 
pockets,  and  to  reach  down  around  his  throat  and 
dangle  about  his  face,  till  the  little  man  was  nearly 
smothered. 

Then  Sandy  set  him  down  a  moment  to  rest,  and 
he  looked  in  his  face  as  he  sat  there,  and  it  had  the 
same  peaceful  smile,  the  same  calm  satisfaction  as 
before. 

The  little  man  now  put  his  head  to  one  side,  shut 


6  THE  DANITES. 

his  pretty  brown  eyes  a  little  tighter  at  the  corners, 
and  opened  his  mouth  the  least  bit  in  the  world,  and 
put  out  his  tongue  as  if  he  was  about  to  sing  a 
hymn. 

Then  Sandy  took  him  up  again.  He  smiled  sweeter 
than  before.  Sandy  tilted  him  sidewise,  and  shook  him 
again.  Then  there  fell  a  spoon,  then  a  pepper-box, 
and  then  a  small  brass  candlestick ;  and  at  last,  as  he 
rolled  him  over  and  shook  the  other  side,  there  came 
out  a  machine  strangely  and  wonderfully  made  of 
whalebone  and  brass,  and  hooks  and  eyes,  that  Sandy 
had  never  seen  before,  and  did  not  at  all  understand, 
but  supposed  was  either  a  fish-trap  or  some  new  in 
vention  for  washing  gold. 

Then  Limber  Tim,  who  had  screwed  his  back  up 
against  the  pailings,  and  watched  all  this  with  his 
mouth  open,  came  down,  and  reaching  out  with  his 
thumb  and  finger,  as  if  they  had  been  a  pair  of  tongs, 
took  the  garments  one  by  one,  named  them,  for  he  knew 
them  and  their  owners  well,  and  laid  them  silently 
aside.  Then  he  took  Washee-Washee  from  the  hands 
of  Sandy  and  stood  him  up,  or  tried  to  stand  him  up 
alone.  He  looked  like  a  flag-staff,  with  the  banner 
falling  loosely  around  it  in  an  indolent  wind.  He 
held  him  up  by  the  queue  awhile,  but  he  wilted  and 
sank  down  gently  at  his  feet,  all  the  time  smiling 
sweetly  as  before ;  all  the  time  looking  up  with  a  half- 
closed  eye  and  half-parted  lips,  as  though  he  was  en 
joying  himself  perfectly,  and  would  like  to  laugh,  only 
that  he  had  too  much  respect  for  the  present  company. 


Washee-Washee  Sentenced. 

THEY  marched  Washee-Washee  to  the  Howling 
Wilderness,  told  the  sentence,  and  called  upon  the 
Parson  to  enforce  judgment.  He  now  took  a  cordial 
and  began.  Washee-Washee  sat  before  him  on  a 
bench,  leaning  against  the  wall.  The  little  man 


THE  DAKITES.  7 

seemed  as  if  he  was  about  to  go  to  sleep  ;  possibly  his 
conscience  had  kept  him  awake  the  night  before, 
when  he  found  that  all  his  little  investments  had  been 
a  failure  in  the  Forks. 

The  Parson  began.  Washee-Washee  flinched, 
jerked  back,  sat  bolt  upright,  and  seemed  to  suffer. 
Then  the  Parson  shot  another  oath.  This  time  it 
came  like  a  cannon-ball,  and  red-hot,  too,  for  Washee- 
Washee  was  almost  lifted  out 'of  his  seat. 

Then  the  Parson  took  his  breath  a  bit,  rolled  the 
quid  of  tobacco  in  his  mouth  from  left  to  right  and 
from  right  to  left,  and  as  he  did  so  he  selected  the 
very  broadest,  knottiest,  and  ugliest  oaths  that  he  had 
found  in  all  his  fifty  years  of  life  at  sea  and  on  the 
border. 

*  Washee-Washee  had  lost  his  expression  of  peace. 
He  had  evidently  been  terribly  shaken.  The  Parson 
had  rested  a  good  spell,  however,  and  the  little,  slim, 
brown  man  before  him,  who  had  crawled  out  over  the 
Great  Wall  of  China,  sailed  across  the  sea  of  seas, 
climbed  the  Sierras,  and  sat  down  in  their  midst  to 
begin  the  old  clothes  business,  without  pay  or  prom 
ise,  was  again  settling  back,  as  if  about  to  surrender 
to  sleep.  Cannon  balls!  conical  shot!  chain  shot! 
and  shot  red-hot !  Never  were  such  oaths  heard  in 
the  world  before !  The  Chinaman  fell  over. 

"  Stop ! "  cried  the  bar-keeper  of  the  Howling  Wil 
derness,  who  didn't  want  the  expense  of  the  funeral ; 
"  stop  !  do  you  mean  to  cuss  him  to  death  ?  " 

The  Chinaman  was  allowed  time  to  recover,  and 
then  they  sat  him  again  on  the  bench.  A  man 
fanned  him  with  his  broad  bamboo  hat,  lest  he  should 
faint  before  the  last  half  of  the  punishment  was 
nearly  through,  and  the  Judge  was  called  upon  to 
enforce  the  remainder  of  their  sentence.  The  Judge 
came  forward  slowly,  put  his  two  hands  back  under 
his  coat  tails,  tilted  forward  on  his  toes  and  began  : 

"  Washee-Washee !  In  this  glorious  climate  of 
Californy — how  could  you  ?  " 

Washee-Washee  nodded,  and  the  Judge  broke  down 


8  THE  DAKITES. 

badly  embarrassed.  At  last  lie  recovered  himself,  and 
began  in  a  deep,  earnest  and  entreating  tone : 

"  Washee-Washee,  in  this  glorious  climate  of  Cali- 
forny,  you  should  remember  the  seventh  command 
ment,  and  never,  under  any  circumstances  or  temp 
tations  that  beset  you,  should  you  covet  your  neigh 
bor's  goods,  or  his  boots,  or  his  shirts,  or  his  socks,  or 
his  handkerchief,  or  anything  that  is  his,  or " 

The  Judge  paused,  the  men  giggled,  and  then  they 

_^j  roared,  and  laughed,  and  danced  about  their  little 

Judge ;    for  Washee-Washee  had    folded    his    little 

brown  hands  in  his  lap,  and  was  sleeping  as  sweetly 

as  a  baby  in  its  cradle. 


A  Pure  Woman. 

SHE  is  pure — a  pure,  good  woman.  Do  you  see 
the  snow  that  mantles  yonder  mountain,  kissed  by 
the  clouds  and  the  morning  sun,  and  speckless  as  the 
lily's  inmost  leaf  ?  'Tis  not  more  pure  than  she. 


Some  Men's  Characters. 

SOME  men  are  with  their  characters  much  as  they 
are  with  their  money;  the  less  they  have  the  more 
careful  they  have  to  be.* 

*  A  few  other  selections  will  be  found  among  the  "  Mis 
cellanies  "  at  the  close  of  this  volume. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIERRAS. 


rplHE  first  volume  of  MILLEB'S  poems,  with  the  above  title,  was  pub- 
-*"  lished  in  May,  1871,  by  Longmans  &  Son,  London,  Eng.,  and  a  few 
months  later  by  Boberts  Bros.,  Boston.  It  consists  of  ten  poems.  The 
first,  "  Arizonian,"  perhaps  as  poetical  as  any,  was  mostly  written  in 
London  under  an  odd  circumstance.  The  author  was  invited  by  Mr. 
Spurgeon  to  hear  him  preach  upon  a  certain  day.  MILLER'S  wardrobe 
being  scanty,  he  ordered  new  clothes  and  boots  for  the  occasion.  Neither 
fitted  him.  The  latter  were  especially  annoying,  and,  while  vainly  trying 
to  put  them  on,  the  composition  forced  itself  into  audible  words,— 

And  I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  ever, 

As  the  years  go  on  and  the  world  goes  over, 

'Twere  better  to  be  content  and  clever  $ ' " 

and  when  he  gave  up  the  task  in  despair,  instead  of  hearing  Spurgeon  he 
wrote  "  Arizonian,"  with  these  as  the  opening  lines.  "  Californian  "  is  the 
oldest  poem,  written  in  California,  and  first  called  "  Joaquin."  ulna" 
was  called  "  Oregonian  "  in  the  English  edition— changed  because  the  book 
was  ill  received  in  Oregon.  Its  characters  are  from  life,  being  two  well- 
known  authors.  "  The  Tale  of  the  Tall  Alcalde  "  is  largely  autobiography. 
It,  and  "  Myrrh,"  and  also  "  Even  So,"  were  mostly  written  in  California. 
u  Burns  and  Byron  "  were  composed  at  Nottingham.  Upon  the  appearance 
of  this  single  work  MILLEB  ascended  to  the  pinnacle  of  fame  in  England. 


Because  the  sides  were  Hue,  because 

The  sun  in  fringes  of  the  sea 

Was  tangled,  and  delightfully 

Kept  dancing  on  as  in  a  waltz, 

And  tropic  trees  bow'd  to  the  seas, 

And  bloom'd  and  bore,  years  through  and  through, 

And  birds  in  blended  gold  and  blue 

Were  thick  and  sweet  as  swarming  bees, 

And  sang  as  if  in  Paradise, 

And  all  that  Paradise  was  Spring — 

Did  I  too  sing  with  lifted  eyes, 

Because  I  could  not  choose  but  sing. 


A  Storm  on  the  River. 

LAY  in  iny  hammock ;  the  air  was  heavy 
And  hot  and  threat'ning;  the  very  heaven 
Was  holding  its  breath ;  and  bees  in  a  bevy 
Hid  under  my  thatch  ;  and  birds  were  driven 
In  clouds  to  the  rocks  in  a  hurried  whirr 
As  I  peer'd  down  by  the  path  for  her. 
She  stood  like  a  bronze  bent  over  the  river, 
The  proud  eyes  fixed,  the  passion  unspoken — 
When  the  heavens  broke  like  a  great  dyke  broken. 
Then,  ere  I  fairly  had  time  to  give  her 
A  shout  of  warning,  a  rushing  of  wind 
And  the  rolling  of  clouds  and  a  deafening  din 
And  a  darkness  that  had  been  black  to  the  blind 
Came  down,  as  I  shouted,  "  Come  in  !  come  in  ! 
Come  under  the  roof,  come  up  from  the  river, 
As  up  from  a  grave — come  now,  or  come  never !" 
The  tassel'd  tops  of  the  pines  were  as  weeds,    . 
The  red-woods  rock'd  like  to  lake-side  reeds, 
And  the  world  seem'd  darken'd  and  drown'd  forever. 


In  the  Tropics. 

BIRDS  hung  and  swung,  green-robed  and  red, 

Or  droop'd  in  curved  lines  dreamily, 

Eainbows  reversed,  from  tree  to  tree, 

Or  sang  low,  hanging  overhead — 

Sang  low,  as  if  they  sang  and  slept ; 

Sang  faint,  like  some  far  waterfall, 

And  took  no  note  of  us  at  all, 

Though  nuts  that  in  the  way  were  spread 

Did  crush  and  crackle  as  we  stept. 

Wild  lilies,  tall  as  maidens  are, 

As  sweet  of  breath,  as  pearly  fair, 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIERBAS. 

As  fair  as  faith,  as  pure  as  truth, 

Fell  thick  before  our  every  tread, 

As  in  a  sacrifice  to  ruth, 

And  all  the  air  with  perfume  fill'd 

More  sweet  than  ever  man  distilPd. 

There  came  the  sweet  song  of  sweet  bees, 

With  chorus-tones  of  cockatoo, 

That  slid  his  beak  along  the  bough, 

And  walk'd  and  talk'd  and  hung  and  swung, 

In  crown  of  gold  and  coat  of  blue, 

The  wisest  fool  that  ever  sung, 

Or  had  a  crown,  or  held  a  tongue. 

How  wild  and  still  with  wonder  stood 

The  proud  mustangs  with  banner'd  mane, 

And  necks  that  never  knew  a  rein, 

And  nostrils  lifted  high,  and  blown, 

Fierce  breathing  as  a  hurricane. 


The  Bleeding  Past 

0  PASSION-TOSSED  and  bleeding  past ! 
Part  now,  part  well,  part  wide  apart, 
As  ever  ships  on  ocean  slid 
Down,  down  the  sea,  hull,  sail  and  mast 


Drowned. 

DEEDS  strangle  memories  of  deeds, 
And  blossoms  wither,  choked  with  weeds, 
And  floods  drown  memories  of  men. 


The  Warm  Sea's  Dimpled  Face. 

THE  warm  sea  laid  his  dimpled  face, 
With  every  white  hair  smoothed  in  place, 
As  if  asleep  against  the  land. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIERRAS.  13 


Loves  of  the  Sun-Maids. 

"No  lands  where  any  ices  are 
Approach,  or  ever  dare  compare 
With  warm  loves  born  beneath  the  sun. 
The  one  the  cold  white  steady  star, 
The  lifted  shifting  sun  the  one. 
I  grant  you  fond,  I  grant  you  fair, 
I  grant  you  honor,  trust  and  truth, 
And  years  as  beautiful  as  youth, 
And  many  years  beyond  the  sun, 
And  faith  as  fixed  as  any  star; 
But  all  the  North-land  hath  not  one 
So  warm  of  soul  as  sun-maids  are. 


Death  of  a  Warrior. 

A  BOW,  a  touch  of  heart,  a  pall 
Of  purple  smoke,  a  crash,  a  thud, 
A  warrior's  raiment  rent,  and  blood, 
A  face  in  dust  and — that  was  all. 


Walker  in  Nicaragua, 

A  PIERCING  eye,  a  princely  air, 
A  presence  like  a  chevalier, 
Half  angel  and  half  Lucifer ; 
Fair  fingers,  jewelPd  manifold 
With  great  gems  set  in  hoops  of  gold; 
Sombrero  black,  with  plume  of  snow 
That  swept  his  long  silk  locks  below ; 
A  red  serape  with  bars  of  gold, 
Heedless  falling,  fold  on  fold ; 
A  sash  of  silk,  where  flashing  swung 
A  sword  as  swift  as  serpent's  tongue, 
In  sheath  of  silver  chased  in  gold ; 


14:  SONGS  OF  THE  SIEEEAS. 

A  face  of  blended  pride  and  pain, 
Of  mingled  pleading  and  disdain, 
"With  shades  of  glory  and  of  grief ; 
And  Spanish  spurs  with  bells  of  steel 
That  dash'd  and  dangl'd  at  the  heel— 
The  famous  fillibuster  chief 
Stood  by  his  tent  'mid  tall  brown  trees 
That  top  the  fierce  Cordilleras, 
With  brawn  arm  arched  above  his  brow;- 
Stood  still — he  stands,  a  picture,  now — 
Long  gazing  down  the  sunset  seas. 


Prophecy  of  the  West. 

DAEED  I  but  say  a  prophecy, 
As  sang  the  holy  men  of  old, 
Of  rock-built  cities  yet  to  be 
Along  these  shining  shores  of  gold, 
Crowding  athirst  into  the  sea, 
What  wondrous  marvels  might  be  told ! 
Enough,  to  know  that  empire  here 
Shall  burn  her  loftiest,  brightest  star; 
Here  art  and  eloquence  shall  reign, 
As  o'er  the  wolf-rear' d  realm  of  old  ; 
Here  learned  and  famous  from  afar, 
To  pay  their  noble  court,  shall  come, 
And  shall  not  seek,  or  see  in  vain, 
But  look  on  all  with  wonder  dumb. 


After  the  Battle. 

SOME  skulls  that  crumble  to  the  touch, 

Some  joints  of  thin  and  chalk-like  bone, 

A  tall  black  chimney,  all  alone, 

That  leans  as  if  upon  a  crutch, 

Alone  are  left  to  mark  or  tell, 

Instead  of  cross  or  cryptic  stone, 

Where  fair  maids  loved,  or  brave  men  fell. 


SOXGS  OF  THE  SIERRAS.  15 


Walker's  Grave. 

I  LAY  this  crude  wreath  on  his  dust, 

Inwove  with  sad,  sweet  memories 

Recalled  here  by  these  colder  seas. 

I  leave  the  wild  bird  with  his  trust, 

To  sing  and  say  him  nothing  wrong; 

I  wake  no  rivalry  of  song. 

No  sod,  no  sign,  no  cross  nor  stone, 

But  at  his  side  a  cactus  green 

Upheld  its  lances  long  and  keen ; 

It  stood  in  hot  red  sands  alone, 

Flat-palm'd  and  fierce  with  lifted  spears ; 

One  bloom  of  crimson  crown'd  its  head, 

A  drop  of  blood,  so  bright,  so  red, 

Yet  redolent  as  roses'  tears. 

In  my  left  hand  I  held  a  shell, 

All  rosy-lipp'd  and  pearly  red ; 

I  laid  it  by  his  lowly  bed, 

For  he  did  love  so  passing  well 

The  grand  songs  of  the  solemn  sea. 

0  shell !  sing  well,  wild,  with  a  will, 

When  storms  blow  loud  and  birds  be  still, 

The  wildest  sea-song  known  to  thee ! 


The  Sierras. 

AFAR  the  bright  Sierras  lie 
A  swaying  line  of  snowy  white, 
A  fringe  of  heaven  hung  in  sight 
Against  the  blue  base  of  the  sky. 


The  Sun  on  the  Sierras. 

THE  day-star  dances  on  the  snow 
That  gleams  along  Sierra's  crown 
In  gorgeous,  everlasting  glow, 
And  frozen  glory  and  renown. 


16  SONGS  OF  THE  SIEKRAS. 


The  Upturned  Face. 

AN  upturned  face  so  sweetly  fair, 
So  sadly,  saintly,  purely  fair, 
So  rich  of  blessedness  and  bliss ! 
I  know  she  is  not  flesh  and  blood, 
But  some  sweet  spirit  of  this  wood ; 
I  know  it  by  her  wealth  of  hair, 
And  step  on  the  unyielding  air ; 
Her  seamless  robe  of  shining  white, 
Her  soul-deep  eyes  of  darkest  night : 
But  over  all  and  more  than  all 
That  could  be  said  or  can  befall, 
That  tongue  can  tell  or  pen  can  trace, 
That  wondrous  witchery  of  face. 


Curambo's  Fear  of  Death. 

OH  !  for  the  rest — for  the  rest  eternal ! 
Oh !  for  the  deep  and  the  dreamless  sleep! 
Where  never  a  hope  lures  to  deceive ; 
Where  never  a  heart  beats  but  to  grieve ; 
Nor  thoughts  of  heaven  or  hells  infernal, 
Shall  ever  wake  or  dare  to  break 
The  rest  of  an  everlasting  sleep ! 
Is  there  truth  in  the  life  eternal  ? 
Will  our  memories  never  die  ? 
Shall  we  relive  in  realms  supernal 
Life's  resplendent  and  glorious  lie  ! 
Death  has  not  one  shape  so  frightful 
But  defiantly  I  would  brave  it ; 
Earth  has  nothing  so  delightful 
But  my  soul  would  scorn  to  crave  it, 
Could  I  know  for  sure,  for  certain, 
That  the  falling  of  the  curtain 
And  the  folding  of  the  hands 
Is  the  full  and  the  final  casting 
Of  accounts  for  the  everlasting! 
Everlasting  and  everlasting ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIERRAS.  17 


Love  in  the  Cycled  Years. 

AWAY  to  where  the  orange  tree 
Is  white  through  all  the  cycled  years, 
And  love  lives  an  eternity ; 
Where  birds  are  never  out  of  tune 
And  life  knows  no  decline  of  noon ; 
Where  winds  are  sweet  as  woman's  breath, 
And  purpled,  dreamy,  mellow  skies 
Are  lovely  as  a  woman's  eyes, — 
There  we  in  calm  and  perfect  bliss 
Of  boundless  faith  and  sweet  delight 
Shall  realize  the  world  above, 
Forgetting  all  the  wrongs  of  this, 
Forgetting  all  of  blood  and  death, 
And  all  your  terrors  of  to-night, 
In  pure  devotion  and  deep  love. 


Into  the  Flame. 

AGAIN  she  lifts  her  brown  arms  bare, 
Far  flashing  in  their  bands  of  gold 
And  precious  stones,  rare,  rich,  and  old. 
Was  ever  mortal  half  so  fair  ? 
Was  ever  such  a  wealth  of  hair  ? 
Was  ever  such  a  plaintive  air? 
Was  ever  such  a  sweet  despair? 

Still  humbler  now  her  form  she  bends ; 
Still  higher  now  the  flame  ascends : 
She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  sun. 
Again  her  jewell'd  fingers  run 
In  signs  and  sacred  form  and  prayer. 
She  bows  with  awe  and  holy  air 
In  lowly  worship  to  the  sun ; 
Then,  rising,  calls  her  lover's  name, 
And  leaps  into  the  leaping  flame. 


18  SONGS  OF  THE  SIEKRAS. 

I  do  not  hear  the  faintest  moan, 

Or  sound,  or  syllable,  or  tone. 

The  red  flames  stoop  a  moment  down, 

As  if  to  raise  her  from  the  ground ; 

They  whirl,  they  swirl,  they  sweep  around 

With  lightning  feet  and  fiery  crown; 

Then  stand  up  tall,  tip-toed,  as  one 

Would  hand  a  soul  up  to  the  sun ! 


The  Morning. 

THE  day-king  hurls  a  dart 
At  darkness,  and  his  cold  black  heart 
Is  pierced  ;  and  now,  compelled  to  flee, 
Flies  bleeding  to  the  farther  sea. 


The  Chieftain's  Form. 

His  breast  was  like  a  gate  of  brass, 
His  brow  was  like  a  gathered  storm ; 
There  is  no  chiselFd  stone  that  has 
So  stately  and  complete  a  form, 
In  sinew,  arm,  and  every  part, 
In  all  the  galleries  of  art. 


PopocatapetL 

POPOCATAPETL  looms  lone  like  an  island 

Above  the  white  cloud-waves  that  break  up  against 

him ; 

Around  him  white  buttes  in  the  moonlight  are  flashing 
Like  silver  tents  pitch'd  in  the  fields  of  heaven ; 
"While  standing  in  line  in  their  snows  everlasting, 
Flash  peaks,  as  my  eyes  into  heaven  are  lifted, 
Like  milestones  that  lead  to  the  city  eternal. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIERRAS.  19 


The  Indian  Warrior's  Address. 


like  pines  around  a  mountain 
Did  my  braves  in  council  stand  ; 
Now  I  call  you  loud  like  thunder, 
And  you  come  at  my  command 
Faint  and  few,  with  feeble  hand. 

Lo  !  our  daughters  have  been  gathered 
From  among  us  by  the  foe, 
Like  the  lilies  they  once  gather'd 
In  the  spring-time  all  aglow 
From  the  banks  of  living  snow. 

Through  the  land  where  we  for  ages 

Laid  the  bravest,  dearest  dead, 

Grinds  the  savage  white  man's  ploughshare, 

Grinding  sires'  bones  'for  bread  — 

We  shall  give  them  blood  instead. 

I  saw  white  skulls  in  a  furrow, 
And  around  the  cursed  share 
Clung  the  flesh  of  my  own  children 
And  my  mother's  tangled  hair 
Trail'd  along  the  furrow  there. 

0,  my  mother  up  in  cloud-land  ! 
(Long  arms  lifting  like  the  spray) 
"Whet  the  flint-heads  in  my  arrows, 
Make  my  heart  as  hard  as  they, 
Nerve  me  like  a  bear  at  bay  ! 

Warriors  !  braves  !  I  cry  for  vengeance  ! 
And  the  dim  ghosts  of  the  dead 
Unavenged,  do  wail  and  shiver 
In  the  storm-cloud  overhead, 
And  shoot  arrows  battle-red. 


20  SONGS   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

Then  he  ceased,  and  sat  among  them, 
With  his  long  locks  backward  strown, 
They  as  mute  as  men  of  marble, 
He  a  king  upon  a  throne, 
And  as  still  as  polish'd  stone. 


The  Sunset. 

A  FLUSHED  and  weary  messenger  a-west 

Is  standing  at  the  half-closed  door  of  day, 

As  he  would  say,  "  Good  night; "  and  now  his  bright 

Red  cap  he  tips  to  me  and  turns  his  face. 

"Were  it  an  unholy  thing  to  say,  an  angel 

Beside  the  door  stood  with  uplifted  seal  ? 

Behold  the  door  seal'd  with  that  blood-red  seal 

Now  burning,  spreading  o'er  the  mighty  West. 


The  Night. 

THE  tawny,  solemn  Night,  child  of  the  East, 
Her  mournful  robes  trails  on  the  distant  woods, 
And  comes  this  way  with  firm  and  stately  step. 
Afront,  and  very  high,  she  wears  her  shining 
Breast-plate  of  silver,  and  on  her  dark  brow 
The  radiant  Venus  burns  like  flashing  wifc. 
Behold !  how  in  her  gorgeous  flow  of  hair 
Glitter  a  million  mellow-yellow  gems, 
Spilling  their  molten  gold  on  the  dewy  grass. 
Throned  on  the  boundless  plain,  and  gazing  down 
Calmly  upon  the  red-seal'd  tomb  of  day, 
Eesting  her  form  against  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
She  rules  with  silent  power  a  peaceful  world. 

'Tis  midnight  now.    The  bent  and  broken  moon, 
Battered  and  black,  as  from  a  thousand  battles, 
Hangs  silent  on  the  purple  walls  of  heaven ; 


SOXGS   OF  THE  SIEEKAS. 

The  angel  warrior,  guard  of  the  gates  eternal, 
In  battle-harness  girt,  sleeps  on  the  field ; 
But  when  to-morrow  comes,  when  wicked  men 
That  fret  the  patient  earth  are  all  astir, 
He  will  resume  his  shield,  and,  facing  earthward, 
The  gates  of  heaven  guard  from  sins  of  earth. 


Don  Carlos*  Hyperbole. 

OH  !  I  would  give  the  green  leaves  of  my  life 
For  something  grand  and  real — undream'd  deeds ! 
To  wear  a  mantle,  broad  and  richly  jewell'd 
As  purple  heaven  fringed  with  gold  at  sunset ; 
To  wear  a  crown  as  dazzling  as  the  sun, 
And,  holding  up  a  sceptre,  lightning-charged, 
Stride  out  among  the  stars  as  I  have  strode 
A  bare-foot  boy  among  the  butter-cups. 
I'd  build  a  pyramid  of  the  whitest  skulls, 
And  step  therefrom  unto  the  spotted  moon, 
And  thence  to  stars,  thence  to  the  central  suns ; 
Then  with  one  grand  and  mighty  leap  would  land 
Unhinder'd  on  the  shores  of  the  gods  of  old, 
And,  sword  in  hand,  unbared  and  unabash'd, 
Would  stand  forth  in  the  presence  of  the  God 
Of  gods ;  there,  on  the  jewell'd  inner-side 
The  walls  of  heaven,  carve  with  a  Damascus 
Steel,  highest  up,  a  grand  and  titled  name 
That  time  nor  tide  could  touch  or  tarnish  ever. 
Yea,  anything  on  earth,  in  hell,  or  heaven, 
Rather  than  lie  a  nameless  clod  forgot, 
Letting  stern  Time  in  triumph  forward  tramp 
Above  my  tombless  and  neglected  dust. 


Night  and  Morning  in  Oregon. 

AT  night,  o'erspread  by  the  rich,  purple  robe, 
The  deep  imperial  Tyriau  hue  that  folds 


22  SONGS  OF  THE  SIERKAS. 

The  invisible  form  of  the  Eternal  God, 

You  will  see  the  sentry  stars  come  marching  forth 

And  take  their  posts  upon  the  field  above, 

Around  the  great  white  tent  where  sleeps  their  chief ; 

You  will  hear  the  kakea  singing  in  a  dream 

The  wildest,  sweetest  song  a  soul  can  drink. 

And  when  the  tent  is  folded  up,  and  all 

The  golden-fringed  red  sentries  face  about 

To  let  the  pompons  day-king  pass  along, 

We  too  will  stand  upon  a  sloping  hill, 

Where  white-lipped  springs  come  leaping,  laughing  up 

With  water  spouting  forth  in  merry  song 

Like  bridled  mirth  from  out  a  school-girl's  throat, 

And  look  far  down  the  bending  Willamette, 

And  in  his  thousand  graceful  curves  and  strokes 

And  strange  meanderings  men  misunderstand, 

Bead  the  unutterable  name  of  God. 


To  be  a  Poet. 

IT  is  to  want  a  friend,  to  want  a  home, 

A  country,  money — ay,  to  want  a  meal. 

It  is  not  wise  to  be  a  poet  now, 

For  the  world  has  so  fine  and  modest  grown, 

It  will  not  praise  a  poet  to  his  face, 

But  waits  till  he  is  dead  some  hundred  years, 

Then  uprears  marbles  cold  and  stupid  as  itself. 


Nature  in  Unrest. 

WHAT  !  Nature  quiet,  peaceful,  uncomplaining  ? 
I've  seen  her  fretted  like  a  lion  caged, 
Chafe  like  a  peevish  woman  cross'd  and  churl'd, 
Tramping  and  foaming  like  a  whelpless  bear ; 
Have  seen  her  weep,  till  earth  was  wet  with  tears, 
Then  turn  all  smiles, — a  jade  that  won  her  point ; 
Have  seen  her  tear  the  hoary  hair  of  Ocean, 


SOKGS  OF  THE   SIERRAS.  23 

While  lie,  himself,  full  half  a  world,  would  moan 
And  roll  and  toss  his  clumsy  hands  all  day, 
To  earth,  like  some  great  helpless  babe,  that  lay 
Bude-rock'd  and  cradled  by  an  unseen  nurse, 
Then  stain  her  snowy  hem  with  salt-sea  tears. 


Longings. 

OH  !  for  the  skies  of  rolling  blue, 
The  balmy  hours  when  lovers  woo, 
When  the  moon  is  doubled  as  in  desire, 
The  dreamy  call  of  the  cockatoo 
From  the  orange  snow  in  his  crest  of  fire, 
Like  vespers  calling  the  soul  to  bliss ! 
In  the  blessed  love  of  the  life  above, 
Ere  it  has  taken  the  stains  of  this. 


The  Valley. 

AN  unkissed  virgin  at  my  feet, 
Lay  my  pure,  hallow'd,  dreamy  vale, 
Where  breathed  the  essence  of  my  tale — 
Lone  dimpled  in  the  mountain's  face, 
Lone  Eden  in  a  boundless  waste — 
It  lay  so  beautiful!  so  sweet! 


The  Stream. 

IT  was  unlike  all  other  streams, 

Save  those  seen  in  sweet  summer  dreams ; 

For  sleeping  in  its  bed  of  snow 

Nor  rock  nor  stone  was  ever  known, 

But  only  shining,  shifting  sands, 

For  ever  sifted  by  unseen  hands* 


24:  SOITGS  OF  THE  SIERKAS. 

It  curved,  it  bent  like  Indian  bow, 
And  like  an  arrow  darted  through, 
Yet  utter'd  not  a  sound  nor  breath, 
Nor  broke  a  ripple  from  the  start ; 
It  was  as  swift,  as  still  as  death, 
Yet  was  so  clear,  so  pure,  so  sweet, 
It  wound  its  way  into  your  heart 
As  through  the  grasses  at  your  feet. 


Winnema's  Face. 

A  FACE  like  hers  is  never  seen 
This  side  the  gates  of  Paradise, 
Save  in  some  Indian-Summer  scene, 
And  then  none  ever  sees  it  twice — 
Is  seen  but  once,  and  seen  no  more, 
Seen  but  to  tempt  the  sceptic  soul, 
And  show  a  sample  of  the  whole 
That  Heaven  has  in  store. 


Loving  Winnema. 

You  might  have  pluckM  beams  from  the  moon, 

Or  torn  the  shadow  from  the  pine 

"When  on  its  dial  track  at  noon, 

But  not  have  parted  us  an  hour, 

She  was  so  wholly,  truly  mine. 

And  life  was  one  unbroken  dream 

Of  purest  bliss,  and  calm  delight, 

A  flow'ry-shored,  untroubled  stream 

Of  sun  and  song,  of  shade  and  bower, 

A  full-moon'd  serenading  night. 

Sweet  melodies  were  in  the  air, 
And  tame  birds  caroll'd  everywhere. 
I  listen'd  to  the  lisping  grove 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIERRAS.  25 

And  cooing  pink-eyed  turtle-doye, 
And,  loving  with  the  holiest  love, 
Believing  with  a  grand  belief, 
That  everything  beneath  the  skies 
Was  beautiful  and  born  to  love ; 
That  man  had  but  to  love,  believe, 
And  earth  would  be  a  paradise 
As  beautiful  as  that  above, 
My  goddess,  Beauty,  I  adored, 
Devoutly,  fervid,  her  alone ; 
My  Priestess,  Love,  unceasing  pourM 
Pure  incense  on  her  altar-stone. 


A-Faint. 

MY  sinking  soul  fell  just  as  far 
As  could  a  star  loosed  by  a  jar 
From  out  the  setting  in  the  ring, 
The  purple,  semi-circled  ring 
That  seenis  to  circle  us  at  night. 


Burning  the  Dead. 

I  LAID  my  dead  upon  the  pile, 

And  underneath  the  lisping  oak 

I  watched  the  columns  of  dark  smoke 

Embrace  her  red  lips,  with  a  smile 

Of  frenzied  fierceness.     Then  there  came 

A  gleaming  column  of  red  flame, 

That  grew  a  grander  monument 

Above  her  nameless,  noble  mould, 

Than  ever  bronze  or  marble  lent 

To  king  or  conqueror  of  old. 

It  seized  her  in  its  hot  embrace, 
And  leapt  as  if  to  reach  the  stars. 
Then,  looking  up,  I  saw  a  face 


26  SONGS  OF  THE  SIEEKAS. 

So  saint!}7"  and  so  sweetly  fair, 
So  sad,  so  pitying,  and  so  pure, 
I  nigh  forgot  the  prison  bars 
And  for  one  instant,  one  alone, 
I  felt  I  could  forgive,  endure. 

I  laid  a  circlet  of  white  stone, 
And  left  her  ashes  there  alone. 
But  after  many  a  white  moon-wane 
I  sought  that  sacred  ground  again, 
And  saw  the  circle  of  white  stone 
With  tall  wild  grasses  overgrown. 
I  did  expect,  I  know  not  why, 
From  out  her  sacred  dust  to  find 
Wild  pinks  and  daisies  blooming  fair; 
And  when  I  did  not  find  them  there 
I  almost  deemed  her  God  unkind, 
Less  careful  of  her  dust  than  I. 


Lord  Byron. 

0  COLD  and  cruel  Nottingham ! 
In  disappointment  and  in  tears, 
Sad,  lost,  and  lonely,  here  I  am 
To  question,  "  Is  this  Nottingham 

Of  which  I  dream'd  for  years  and  years  ?  " 

1  seek  in  vain  for  name  or  sign 

Of  him,  who  made  this  mould  a  shrine, 
A  Mecca  to  the  fair  and  fond 
Beyond  the  seas,  and  still  beyond. 

In  men  whom  men  condemn  as  ill 

I  find  so  much  of  goodness  still, 

In  men  whom  men  pronounce  divine 

I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot, 

I  hesitate  to  draw  a  line 

Between  the  two,  where  God  has  not. 


SONGS   OF  THE   SIEKKAS.  27 

He  stood — a  solitary  light 
In  stormy  seas  and  settled  night — 
Then  fell,  but  stirred  the  seas  as  far 
As  winds  and  waves  and  waters  are. 


To  Robert  Burns. 

0  Burns!  where  bid  ?  where  bide  you  now? 
Where  are  you  in  this  night's  full  noon, 
Great  master  of  the  pen  and  plough  ? 
Might  you  not  on  yon  slanting  beam 
Of  moonlight,  kneeling  to  the  Doon, 
Descend  once  to  this  hallow'd  stream  ? 
Sure  yon  stars  yield  enough  of  light 
For  heaven  to  spare  your  face  one  night. 

0  sad,  sweet  singer  of  a  Spring ! 
Yours  was  a  chill  uncheerful  May, 
And  you  knew  no  full  days  of  June ; 
You  ran  too  swiftly  up  the  way, 
And  wearied  soon,  so  over-soon ! 
You  sang  in  weariness  and  woe ; 
You  falter'd,  and  God  heard  you  sing, 
Then  touch'd  your  hand  and  led  you  so, 
You  found  life's  hill-top  low,  so  low, 
You  cross'd  its  summit  long  ere  noon. 
Thus,  sooner  than  one  would  suppose, 
Some  weary  feet  will  find  repose. 


The  Moon  on  Winnema's  Hair. 

AND  through  the  leaves  the  silver  moon 

Fell  sifting  down  in  silver  bars 

And  play'd  upon  her  raven  hair, 

And  darted  through  like  dimpled  stars 

That  dance  through  all  the  night's  sweet  noon 

To  echoes  of  an  unseen  choir. 


28  SONGS  OF  THE  SIEKBAS. 


The  Blame — a  Prophecy. 

I  DID  not  blame  you — do  not  blame. 
The  stormy  elements  of  soul 
That  I  did  scorn  to  tone  or  tame, 
Or  bind  down  unto  dull  control 
In  full  fierce  youth,  they  all  are  yours, 
With  all  their  folly  and  their  force. 

God  keep  you  pure,  oh !  very  pure. 
God  give  you  grace  to  dare  and  do ! 
God  give  you  courage  to  endure 
The  all  He  may  demand  of  you, 
Keep  time-frosts  from  your  raven  hair, 
And  your  young  heart  without  a  care. 

I  make  no  murmur  nor  complain ; 
Above  me  are  the  stars  and  blue 
Alluring  far  to  grand  refrain ; 
Before,  the  beautiful  and  true, 
To  love  or  hate,  to  win  or  lose ; 
Lo !  I  will  now  arise  and  choose. 

But  should  you  sometime  read  a  sign, 
A  name  among  the  princely  few, 
In  isles  of  song  beyond  the  brine, 
Then  you  will  think  a  time,  and  you 
Will  turn  and  say,  "  He  once  was  mine, 
Was  all  my  own  ;  his  smiles,  his  tears, 
Were  mine — were  mine  for  years  and  years.3 


The  Coffined  Past. 

LIFE  knows  no  dead  so  beautiful 
As  is  the  white  cold  coffin'd  past ; 
This  I  may  love  nor  be  betray'd : 
The  dead  are  faithful  to  the  last. 
I  am  not  spouseless — I  have  wed 
A  memory — a  life  that's  dead. 


SOKGS   OF  THE   SIERRAS.  29 


What  Should  Have  Been. 

SHADOWS  that  shroud  the  to-morrow 
Glist  from  the  life  that's  within, 
Traces  of  pain  and  of  sorrow, 
And  maybe  a  trace  of  sin, 
Eeachings  for  God  in  the  darkness, 
And  for — what  should  have  been. 


A  Poet  of  Nature. 

IK  the  shadows  a-west  of  the  sunset  mountains, 
Where  old-time  giants  had  dwelt  and  peopled, 
And  built  up  cities  and  castled  battlements, 
And  rear'd  up  pillars  that  pierced  the  heavens, 
A  poet  dwelt,  of  the  book  of  Nature — 
An  ardent  lover  of  the  pure  and  beautiful, 
Devoutest  lover  of  the  true  and  beautiful, 
Profoundest  lover  of  the  grand  and  beautiful — 
With  a  heart  all  impulse,  in  tensest  passion, 
Who  believed  in  love  as  in  God  Eternal — 
A  dream  while  the  waken'd  world  went  over, 
An  Indian  summer  of  the  sullen  seasons; 
And  he  sang  wild  songs  like  the  winds  in  cedars, 
Was  tempest-toss'd  as  the  pines,  yet  ever 
As  fix'd  in  truth  as  they  in  the  mountains. 


Woman's  Strangeness. 

STRANGELY  wooing  are  the  worlds  above  us, 
Strangely  beautiful  is  the  Faith  of  Islam, 
Strangely  sweet  are  the  songs  of  Solomon, 
Strangely  tender  are  the  teachings  of  Jesus, 
Strangely  cold  is  the  sun  on  the  mountains, 
Strangely  mellow  is  the  moon  in  old  ruins, 
Strangely  pleasant  are  the  stolen  waters, 


30  SONGS  OF  THE  SIEKBAS. 

Strangely  simple  and  unwooing  is  virtue. 
Strangely  lighted  is  the  North  night-region, 
Strangely  strong  are  the  streams  in  the  ocean, 
Strangely  true  are  the  tales  of  the  Orient, 
Strangely  winning  is  a  dark-eyed  widow, 
Strangely  wayward  are  the  ways  of  lovers, 
But,  stranger  than  all  are  the  ways  of  women. 


Death. 

DEATH  is  delightful.    Death  is  dawn, 
The  waking  from  a  weary  night 
Of  fevers  unto  truth  and  light. 
Fame  is  not  much,  love  is  not  much, 
Yet  what  else  is  there  worth  the  touch 
Of  lifted  hands  with  dagger  drawn  ? 
So  surely  life  is  little  worth  : 
Therefore  I  say,  look  up ;  therefore 
I  say,  One  little  star  has  more 
Bright  gold  than  all  the  earth  of  earth. 


Recollection. 

SOME  things  are  sooner  marred  than  made. 
The  moon  was  white,  the  stars  a-chill — 
A  frost  fell  on  a  soul  that  night, 
And  lips  were  whiter,  colder  still. 
A  soul  was  black  that  erst  was  white. 
And  you  forget  the  place — the  night ! 
Forget  that  aught  was  done  or  said — 
Say  this  has  pass'd  a  long  decade — 
Say  not  a  single  tear  was  shed — 
Say  you  forget  these  little  things ! 
Is  not  your  recollection  loath  ? 
Well,  little  bees  have  bitter  stings, 
And  I  remember  for  us  both. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIERKAS.  31 


The  Forest  Maiden. 

I  LOVE 

A  forest  maiden  ;  she  is  mine ; 
And  on  Sierras'  slopes  of  pine, 
The  vines  below,  the  snows  above, 
A  solitary  lodge  is  set 
Within  a  fringe  of  watered  firs ; 
And  there  my  wigwam  fires  burn, 
Fed  by  a  round,  brown,  patient  hand, 
That  small  brown  faithful  hand  of  hers 
That  never  rests  till  my  return. 
The  yellow  smoke  is  rising  yet ; 
Tiptoe,  and  see  it  where  you  stand 
Lift  like  a  column  from  the  land. 

There  are  no  sea-gems  in  her  hair ; 

No  jewels  fret  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  half  her  bronzen  limbs  are  bare  : 

But  round  brown  arms  have  golden  bands, 

Broad,  rich,  and  by  her  cunning  hands 

Cut  from  the  yellow  virgin  ore, 

And  she  does  not  desire  more. 

I  wear  the  beaded  wampum  belt 

That  she  has  wove — the  sable  pelt 

That  she  has  fringed  red  threads  around ; 

And  in  the  morn,  when  men  are  not, 

I  wake  the  valley  with  the  shot 

That  brings  the  brown  deer  to  the  ground ; 

And  she  beside  the  lodge  at  noon 

Sings  with  the  wind,  while  baby  swings 

In  sea-shell  cradle  by  the  bough — 

Sings  low,  so  like  the  clover  sings 

"With  swarm  of  bees ;  I  hear  her  now, 

I  see  her  sad  face  through  the  moon  .  .  . 

Such  songs  ! — would  earth  had  more  of  such 

She  has  not  much  to  say,  and  she 

Lifts  never  voice  to  question  me 

In  aught  I  do  . .  .  and  that  is  much. 


32  SONGS  OF  THE  SIEKRAS. 

I  love  her  for  her  patient  trust, 
And  my  love's  forty  fold  return — 
A  value  I  have  not  to  learn 
As  you — at  least  as  many  must. 

She  is  not  over  tall  or  fair  ; 

Her  breasts  are  curtained  by  her  hair, 

And  sometimes,  through  the  silken  fringe, 

I  see  her  bosom's  wealth  liko  wine, 

Burst  through  in  luscious  ruddy  tinge — 

And  all  its  wealth  and  worth  are  mine. 

I  know  not  that  one  drop  of  blood 

Of  prince  or  chief  is  in  her  veins : 

I  simply  say  that  she  is  good, 

And  loves  me  with  pure  womanhood, 

When  that  is  said,  why,  what  remains  ? 


SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 


BROUGHT  out  in  1873  by  Longmans  &  Sons,  London,  and  Roberts 
Brothers,  Boston.  Dedicated  to  the  Rossettis.  It  consists  of  four 
long  poems,  and  twenty-three  short  ones,  the  latter  gathered  under  the 
titles  "Olive  Leaves"  and  "Fallen  Leaves."  The  "Isles  of  the  Ama 
zons,"  the  first  and  longest,  was  mostly  composed  in  1871,  while  drifting 
about  on  the  Mexican  and  South  Californian  Pacific  Coast,  and  appeared 
in  the  Overland  Monthly.  "In  the  Indian  Summer"  was  composed  at 
Cleveland,  Ohio ;  "  From  Sea  to  Sea  "  and  "  Sierras  Adios  "  in  New  York, 
the  former  being  published  in  Scribner1  s  Monthly.  "  Olive  Leaves," 
which  are  sacred  poems,  were  written  in  the  Levant— some  in  the  Holy 
Land  and  others  about  the  Mediterranean,  during  1872. 


Well!  wJio  shall  lay  hand  on  my  Jiarp  but  me, 
Or  shall  chide  my  song  from  the  sounding  trees  ? 

The  passionate  sun  and  the  resolute  sea, 
These  were  my  masters,  and  only  tJiese. 

I  but  sing  for  the  love  of  song  and  the  few 
Who  loved  me  first  and  shall  love  me  last ; 
And  the  storm  shall  pass  as  the  storms  have  pass'd, 

For  never  were  clouds  but  the  sun  came  through. 


The  Rocky  Mountains, 
r 

A 

MEVAL  forests !  virgin  sod ! 
That  Saxon  hath  not  ravish'd  yet ! 
Lo !  peak  on  peak  in  column  set, 
In  stepping  stairs  that  reach  to  God ! 

Here  we  are  free  as  sea  or  wind, 
For  here  are  set  the  snowy  tents 
In  everlasting  battlements, 
Against  the  march  of  Saxon  mind. 


To  the  Cyprian  Singer. 

0  CAKPET-KKTGHT  singer!  shrewd  merchant  of  song! 
Get  gold  and  be  glad,  buy,  sell,  and  be  strong ! 
Sweet  Cyprian,  I  kiss  you,  I  pay  you,  we  part : 
Go  !  you  have  my  gold,  but  who  has  my  heart  ? 
Go,  splendid-made  singer,  so  finished,  so  fair, 
Go  sing  you  of  heaven,  with  never  a  prayer, 
Of  hearts  that  are  aching,  with  never  a  heart, 
Of  nature,  all  girded  and  bridled  by  art ; 
Go  sing  you  of  battles,  with  never  a  scar, 
Of  sunlight,  with  never  a  soul  for  the  noon ; 
Move  cold  and  alone  like  a  broken,  bright  moon. 
And  shimmer  and  shine  like  a  far,  cold  star. 


In  the  Desert  Wood. 

UNTO  God  a  prayer  and  to  love  a  tear, 
And  I  die,  he  said,  in  a  desert  here, 
So  deep  that  never  a  note  is  heard 
But  the  listless  song  of  that  soulless  bird. 


36  SONGS  OF  THE   SUNLANDS. 


The  Knight  Seeking  Love. 

I  shall  journey  in  search  of  the  Incan  Isles, 
Go  far  and  away  to  traditional  land, 

Where  Love  is  a  queen  in  a  crown  of  smiles, 
And  battle  has  never  imbrued  a  hand ; 

"Where  man  has  never  despoiled  or  trod  ; 
Where  woman's  hand  with  a  woman's  heart 
Has  fashion'd  an  Eden  from  man  apart, 

And  she  walks  in  her  garden  alone  with  God. 


The  Amazon  Coast. 

THE  land  was  the  tides ;  the  shore  was  undone ; 
It  look'd  as  the  lawless,  unsatisfied  seas 
Had  thrust  up  an  arm  through  the  tangle  of  trees 

And  clutch'd  at  the  citrons  that  grew  in  the  sun ; 
And  clutch'd  at  the  diamonds  that  hid  in  the  sand, 
And  laid  heavy  hand  on  the  gold,  and  a  hand 

On  the  redolent  fruits,  on  the  ruby-like  wine, 

And  the  stones  like  the  stars  when  the  stars  are  divine. 


The  Song  of  the  Silence. 

0,  HEAVENS,  the  eloquent  song  of  the  silence  ! 

Asleep  lay  the  sun  in  the  vines,  on  the  sod, 
And  asleep  in  the  sun  lay^  the  green -girdled  islands, 

As  rock'd  to  their  rest  in  the  cradle  of  God. 

God's  poet  is  silence !  His  song  is  unspoken, 
And  yet  so  profound,  so  loud,  and  so  far, 

It  fills  you,  it  thrills  you  with  measures  unbroken, 
And  as  soft,  and  as  fair,  and  as  far  as  a  star. 


SOKGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS.  37 

The  shallow  seas  moan.     From  the  first  they  have 

mutter'd 
And  mourn'd,  as  a  child,  and  have  wept  at  their 

will  .  .  . 

The  poems  of  God  are  too  grand  to  be  utter'd : 
The  dreadful  deep  seas  they  are  loudest  when  still. 


The  Queen  of  the  Amazons. 

WITH  a  face  as  brown  as  the  boatmen's  are, 
Or  the  brave,  brown  hand  of  a  harvester ; 
And  girdled  in  gold,  and  crown' d  in  hair 
In  a  storm  of  night,  all  studded  with  rare 
Rich  stones,  that  fretted  the  full  of  a  noon, 
The  Queen  on  a  prow  stood  splendid  and  tall, 
As  petulant  waters  would  lift,  and  fall, 
And  beat,  and  bubble  a  watery  rune. 


The  Love  of  the  Trees. 

THE  trees  that  lean'd  in  their  love  nnto  trees, 

That  lock'd  in  their  loves,  and  were  so  made  strong, 

Stronger  than  armies ;  ay,  stronger  than  seas 
That  rush  from  their  caves  in  a  storm  of  song. 


Forsake  the  City. 

FORSAKE  the  city.    Follow  me 
To  where  the  white  caps  of  a  sea 
Of  mountains  break  and  break  again, 

As  blown  in  foam  against  a  star — 
As  breaks  the  fury  of  a  main — 

And  there  remains,  as  fix'd,  as  far. 


38  SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 

Forsake  the  people.    What  are  they 

That  laugh,  that  live,  that  love  by  rule 
Forsake  the  Saxon.     What  are  these 
That  shun  the  shadows  of  the  trees : 
The  Druid-forests  ?  ...  Go  thy  way, 
We  are  not  one.     I  will  not  please 
You : — fare  you  well,  0  wiser  fool ! 

But  you  who  love  me ; — Ye  who  love 
The  shaggy  forests,  fierce  delights 
Of  sounding  waterfalls,  of  heights 
That  hang  like  broken  moons  above, 
With  brows  of  pine  that  brush  the  sun, 
Believe  and  follow.    We  are  one ; 
The  wild  man  shall  to  us  be  tame ; 

The  woods  shall  yield  their  mysteries ; 
The  stars  shall  answer  to  a  name, 
And  be  as  birds  above  the  trees. 


Mountain  Heights. 

THE  snow-topped  towers  crush  the  clouds 
And  break  the  still  abode  of  stars, 

Like  sudden  ghosts  in  snowy  shrouds, 
New  broken  through  their  earthly  bars. 


Isles  of  the  Amazon. 

0  ISLES  of  a  wave  in  an  ocean  of  wood ! 

0  white  waves  lost  in  the  wilds  I  love ! 

Let  the  red  stars  rest  on  your  breast  from  above, 
And  sing  to  the  sun,  for  his  love  it  is  good. 

He  has  made  you  his  heirs,  he  has  given  you  gold, 
And  wrought  for  you  garments  of  limitless  green. 
With  beautiful  bars  of  the  scarlet  between, 

And  of  silver  seams  fretting  you  fold  on  fold. 


SOKGS   OF  THE  SUNLANDS.  39 

He  has  kiss'd  and  caress'd  yon,  loved  you  true ; 
Yea,  loved  as  a  God  loves,  loved  as  I 
Shall  learn  to  love  when  the  stars  shall  lie 

Like  blooms  at  my  feet  in  a  field  of  blue. 


Amazon  Beauties. 

every  color  that  the  Master  Sun 
Has  painted  and  hung  in  the  halls  of  God, 
Blush'd  in  the  boughs  or  spread  on  the  sod, 
Pictured  and  woven  and  wound  as  one. 

A  bird  in  scarlet  and  gold,  made  mad 

With  sweet  delights,  through  the  branches  slid, 
And  kiss'd  the  lake  on  a  drowsy  lid 

Till  the  ripples  ran  and  the  face  was  glad. 


The  Tomb  of  Lovers. 

THEKE  is  many  a  love  in  the  land,  my  love, 

But  never  a  love  like  this  is : 
Then  kill  me  dead  with  your  love,  my  love, 

And  cover  me  up  with  kisses. 

So  kill  me  dead  and  cover  me  deep 

Where  never  a  soul  discovers ; 
Deep  in  your  heart,  to  sleep,  to  sleep 

In  the  darlingest  tomb  of  lovers. 


Alone  by  Thee. 

0,  PUKE  as  a  tear  and  as  strong  as  a  sea, 
Yet  tender  to  me  as  the  touch  of  a  dove, 

I  had  rather  sit  sad  and  alone  by  thee, 
Than  to  go  and  be  glad,  with  a  legion  in  love. 


40  SOKGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 


Let  the  Earth  Rest. 

IT  seems  to  me  that  Mother  Earth 

Is  weary  from  eternal  toil 
And  bringing  forth  by  fretted  soil 

In  all  the  agonies  of  birth. 
Sit  down !  sit  down !  Lo,  it  were  best 
That  we  should  rest,  that  she  should  rest. 

I  think  we  then  shall  all  be  glad, 
At  least  I  know  we  are  not  now ; 
ISTot  one.     And  even  Earth  somehow 
Seems  growing  old  and  over  sad. 
Then  fold  your  hands,  for  it  were  best 
That  we  should  rest,  that  she  should  rest. 


Love-lights. 

I  TELL  you  that  love  is  the  bitterest  sweet 
That  ever  laid  hold  on  the  heart  of  a  man ; 
A  chain  to  the  soul,  and  to  cheer  as  a  ban, 

And  a  bane  to  the  brain,  and  a  snare  to  the  feet. 

Ay !  who  shall  ascend  on  the  hollow  white  wings 
Of  love  but  to  fall ;  to  fall  and  to  learn, 
Like  a  moth,  and  a  man,  that  the  lights  lure  to  burn, 

That  the  roses  have  thorns,  and  the  honey-bee  stings  ? 


On  and  On. 

ON,  on  o'er  the  summit ;  and  onward  again, 
And  down  like  the  sea-dove  the  billow  enshrouds, 
And  down  like  the  swallow  that  dips  to  the  sea, 
"We  dart  and  we  dash  and  we  quiver,  and  we 
Are  blowing  to  heaven  white  billows  of  clouds. 


SOJSTGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS.  41 


Love-sweets. 

She  is  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  Castile  rose, 
She  is  warm  to  the  heart  as  a  world  of  wine, 

And  as  rich  to  behold  as  the  rose  that  grows 
With  its  red  heart  bent  to  the  tide  of  the  Rhine. 


At  Night  in  the  Cars. 

Lo !  darkness  bends  down  like  a  mother  of  grief 
On  the  limitless  plain,  and  the  fall  of  her  hair 
It  has  mantled  a  world.     The  stars  are  in  sheaf, 
Yet  onward  we  plunge  like  a  beast  in  despair 
Through  the  thick  of  the  night;  and  the  thundering 

cars  ! 

They  have  crush'd  and  have  broken  the  beautiful  day ; 
Have  crumbled  it,  scattered  it  far  away, 
And  blown  it  above  to  a  dust  of  stars. 


The  Pacific  Reached. 

WE  are  hush'd  with  wonder  and  all  apart 
We  stand  in  silence,  till  the  heaving  heart 
Fills  full  of  heaven,  and  then  the  knees 
Go  down  in  worship  on  the  golden  sands. 
With  faces  seaward,  and  with  folded  hands 
We  gaze  on  the  beautiful  Balboa  seas. 


The  Snow-Capped  Sierras. 

THEY  stand  white  stairs  of  heaven, — stand  a  line 
Of  lifting,  endless,  and  eternal  white. 
They  look  upon  the  far  and  flashing  brine, 
Upon  the  boundless  plains,  the  broken  height 


42  SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLAKDS. 

Of  Kamiakin's  battlements.     The  flight 
Of  time  is  underneath  their  untopp'd  towers. 
They  seem  to  push  aside  the  moon  at  night, 
To  jostle  and  to  loose  the  stars.     The  flowers 
Of  heaven  fall  about  their  brows  in  shining  showers. 

They  stand  a  line  of  lifted  snowy  isles 
High  held  above  a  toss'd  and  tumbled  sea — 
A  sea  of  wood  in  wild  unmeasured  miles : 
White  pyramids  of  Faith  where  man  is  free ; 
White  monuments  of  Hope,  that  yet  shall  be 
The  mounts  of  matchless  and  immortal  song  .  .  . 
I  look  far  down  the  hollow  days :  I  see 
The  bearded  prophets,  simple-soul'd  and  strong, 
That  strike  the  sounding  harp  and  thrill  the  heeding 
throng. 

Serene  and  satisfied !  supreme  !   as  lone 
As  God,  they  loom  like  God's  archangels  churl'd : 
They  look  as  cold  as  kings  upon  a  throne : 
The  mantling  wings  of  night  are  crush'd  and  curl'd 
As  feathers  curl.    The  elements  are  hurl'd 
From  off  their  bosoms  and  are  bidden  go, 
Like  evil  spirits,  to  an  under-world. 
They  stretch  from  Cariboo  to  Mexico, 
A  line  of  battle-tents  in  everlasting  snow. 


On  the  Columbia. 

AN  Indian  summer-time  it  was,  long  past, 
We  lay  on  this  Columbia,  far  below 
The  stormy  water-falls,  and  God  had  cast 
Us  heaven's  stillness.    Dreamily  and  slow 
We  drifted  as  the  light  bark  chose  to  go. 
An  Indian  girl  with  ornaments  of  shell 
Began  to  sing  .  .  .  The  stars  may  hold  such  flow 
Of  hair,  such  eyes,  but  rarely  earth.    There  fell 
A  sweet  enchantment  that  possess'd  me  as  a  spell. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SUXLAKDS.  43 


A  Bison-King. 

OSTCE,  morn  by  morn,  when  snowy  mountains  flam'd 
With  sudden  shafts  of  light,  that  shot  a  flood 
Into  the  vale  like  fiery  arrows  aim'd 
At  night  from  mighty  battlements,  there  stood 
Upon  a  cliff,  high-limn'd  against  Mount  Hood, 
A  matchless  bull  fresh  forth  from  sable  wold, 
And  standing  so  seem'd  grander  'gainst  the  wood 
Than  winged  bull,  that  stood  with  tips  of  gold 
Beside  the  brazen  gates  of  Nineveh  of  old. 

A  time  he  toss'd  the  dewy  turf,  and  then 
Stretched  forth  his  wrinkled  neck,  and  long  and  loud 
He  call'd  above  the  far  abodes  of  men 
Until  his  breath  became  a  curling  cloud 
And  wreathed  about  his  neck  a  misty  shroud. 


A  Morn  in  Oregon. 

A  MOKN"  in  Oregon  !    The  kindled  camp 
Upon  the  mountain  brow  that  broke  below 
In  steep  and  grassy  stairway  to  the  damp 
And  dewy  valley,  snapped  and  flamed  aglow 
"With  knots  of  pine.    Above,  the  peaks  of  snow, 
With  under-belts  of  sable  forests,  rose 
And  flash'd  in  sudden  sunlight.    To  and  fro 
And  far  below,  in  lines  and  winding  rows, 
The  herders  drove  their  bands  and  broke  the  deep 
repose. 

I  heard  their  shouts  like  sounding  hunter's  horn, 
The  lowing  herds  made  echoes  far  away ; 
When  lo  !  the  clouds  came  driving  in  with  morn 
Toward  the  sea,  as  fleeing  from  the  day. 
The  valleys  fill'd  with  curly  clouds.    They  lay 
Below,  a  levell'd  sea  that  reach'd  and  roll'd 


44  SCWGS  OF  THE   SUtf  LANDS. 

And  broke  like  breakers  of  a  stormy  bay 
Against  the  grassy  shingle  fold  on  fold, 
So  like  a  splendid  ocean,  snowy  white  and  cold. 

Here  lifts  the  land  of  clouds  !     The  mantled  forms, 
Made  white  with  everlasting  snow,  look  down 
Through  mists  of  many  canons,  and  the  storms 
That  stretch  from  Autumn  time  until  they  drown 
The  yellow  hem  of  Spring.     The  cedars  frown, 
Dark-brow'd  through  banner'd  clouds  that  stretch 

and  stream 

Above  the  sea  from  snowy  mountain  crown. 
The  heavens  roll,  and  all  things  drift  or  seem 
To  drift  about  and  drive  like  some  majestic  dream. 


Sunshine  after  the  Storm. 

In  waning  Autumn  time,  when  purpled  skies 
Begin  to  haze  in  indolence  below 
The  snowy  peaks,  you  see  black  forms  arise 
In  rolling  thunder  banks  above,  and  throw 
Quick  barricades  about  the  gleaming  snow. 
The  strife  begins !    The  battling  seasons  stand 
Broad  breast  to  breast.    A  flash  !    Contentions  grow 
Terrific.    Thunders  crash,  and  lightnings  brand 
The  battlements.    The  clouds  possess  the  stormy  land. 

Then  clouds  blow  by,  the  swans  take  loftier  flight, 
The  yellow  blooms  burst  out  upon  the  hill, 
The  purple  cam  as  comes  as  in  a  night, 
Tall  spiked  and  dripping  of  the  dews  that  fill 
The  misty  valley  .  .  .  Sunbeams  break  and  spill 
Their  glory  till  the  vale  is  full  of  noon. 
The  roses  belt  the  streams ;  no  bird  is  still.  .  .  . 
The  stars,  as  large  as  lilies,  meet  the  moon 
And  sing  of  summer,  born  thus  sudden  full  and  soon. 


SOKGS  OF  THE  SUSTLANDS.  45 


To  the  Red  Men,  Sleeping. 

MY  brave  and  unremember'd  heroes,  rest ; 
You  fell  in  silence,  silent  lie  and  sleep. 
Sleep  on  unsung,  for  this,  I  say,  were  best ; 
The  world  to-day  has  hardly  time  to  weep ; 
The  world  to-day  will  hardly  care  to  keep 
In  heart  her  plain  and  unpretending  brave. 
The  desert  winds,  they  whistle  by  and  sweep 
About  you  ;  brown'd  and  russet  grasses  wave 
Along  a  thousand  leagues  that  lie  one  common  grave. 

The  proud  and  careless  pass  in  palace  car 
Along  the  line  you  blazon'd  white  with  bones ; 
Pass  swift  to  people,  and  possess  and  mar 
Your  lands  with  monuments  and  lettered  stones 
Unfco  themselves.     Thank  God !  this  waste  disowns 
Their  touch.     His  everlasting  hand  has  drawn 
A  shining  line  around  you.     Wealth  bemoans 
The  waste  your  splendid  grave  employs.     Sleep  on, 
No  hand  shall  touch  your  dust  this  side  of  God  and 
dawn. 


The  Red  Men  Still  Free. 

I  HAYE  not  been,  shall  not  be  understood ; 
I  have  not  wit  nor  will  to  well  explain, 
But  that  which  men  call  good  I  find  not  good. 
The  lands  the  savage  held,  shall  hold  again, 
The  gold  the  savage  spurned  in  proud  disdain 
For  centuries ;  go,  take  them  all ;  build  high 
Your  gilded  temples ;  strive  and  strike  and  strain 
And  crowd  and  controvert  and  curse  and  lie 
In  church  and  state,  in  town  and  citadel,  and — die. 

And  who  shall  grow  the  nobler  from  it  all  ? 
The  mute  and  unsung  savage  loved  as  true, — 
He  felt,  as  grateful  felt,  God's  blessings  fall 


46  SOKGS  OF  THE  SUKLANDS. 

About  his  lodge  and  tawny  babes  as  you 
In  temples,  Moslem,  Christian  monk,  or  Jew. 
The  sea,  the  great  white,  braided,  bounding  sea, 
Is  laughing  in  your  face ;  the  arching  blue 
Remains  to  God ;  the  mountains  still  are  free, 
A  refuge  for  the  few  remaining  tribes  and  me. 


Westminster  Abbey. 

THE  Abbey  broods  beside  the  turbid  Thames; 
Her  mother  heart  is  filPd  with  memories  ; 
Her  every  niche  is  stored  with  storied  names ; 
They  move  before  me  like  a  mist  of  seas. 
I  am  confused,  am  made  abash'd  by  these 
Most  kingly  souls,  grand,  silent,  and  severe. 
I  am  not  equal,  I  should  sore  displease 
The  living  .  . .  dead.    I  dare  not  enter ;  drear 
And  stain'd  in  storms  of  grander  days   all  things 
appear. 


The  Indian  Summer. 

THE  sunlight  lay  in  gathered  sheaves 
Along  the  ground,  the  golden  leaves 
Possessed  the  land  and  lay  in  bars 
Above  the  lifted  lawn  of  green 
Beneath  the  feet,  or  fell,  as  stars 
Fall,  slant-wise,  shimmering  and  still 
Upon  the  plain,  upon  the  hill, 
And  heaving  hill  and  plain  between. 


More  than  Fair. 

.  .  .  SHE  was  more  than  fair 
And  more  than  good,  and  matchless  wise, 
With  all  the  lovelight  in  her  eyes, 
And  all  the  midnight  in  her  hair. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS.  47 


Look  Starward. 

LOOK  starward;  stand  far  and  unearthly, 
Free-soul'd  as  a  banner  unfurl'd. 

Be  worthy,  0  brother,  be  worthy : 
For  a  God  was  the  price  of  the  world. 


Hope. 

WHAT  song  is  well  sung  not  of  sorrow  ? 

"What  triumph  well  won  without  pain  ? 
What  virtue  shall  be  and  not  borrow 

Bright  lustre  from  many  a  stain  ? 


A  Wanderer. 

A  WANDERER  of  many  lands 

Was  I,  a  weary  Ishmaelite, 

That  knew  the  sign  of  lifted  hands ; 

Had  seen  the  Crescent-mosques,  had  seen 

The  Druid  oaks  of  Aberdeen ; 

Then  crossed  the  hilly  seas,  and  saw 

The  sable  pines  of  Mackinaw, 

And  lakes  that  lifted  cold  and  white. 

I  saw  the  sweet  Miami,  saw 
The  swift  Ohio  bent  and  rolled 
Between  his  gleaming  walls  of  gold, 
The  Wabash  banks  of  gray  papaw, 
The  Mississippi's  ash ;  at  morn 
Of  autumn,  when  the  oak  is  red, 
Saw  slanting  pyramids  of  corn, 
The  level  fields  of  spotted  swine, 
The  crooked  lanes  of  lowing  kine, 
And  in  the  burning  bushes  saw 
The  face  of  God,  with  bended  head. 


48  SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLAKDS. 


Before  a  Poet's  Shrine. 

0  MASTER,  here  I  bow  before  a  shrine ; 
Before  the  lordliest  dust  that  ever  yet 
Moved  animate  in  human  form  divine. 
Lo !  dust  indeed  to  dust.    The  mould  is  set 
Above  thee  and  the  ancient  walls  are  wet, 
And  drip  all  day  in  dank  and  silent  gloom, 
As  if  the  cold  gray  stones  could  not  forget 
Thy  great  estate  shrunk  to  this  sombre  room, 
But  learn  to  weep  perpetual  tears  above  thy  tomb. 


The  Indian-Summer  Evening. 

THE  sun  caught  up  his  gathered  sheaves ; 
A  squirrel  caught  a  nut,  and  ran ; 
A  rabbit  rustled  in  the  leaves; 
A  whirling  bat,  black-winged  and  tan, 
Blew  swift  between  us ;  sullen  night 
Fell  down  upon  us ;  mottled  kine, 
"With  lifted  heads,  went  lowing  down 
The  rocky  ridge  toward  the  town, 
And  all  the  woods  grew  dark  as  wine. 


Bury  Me  Deep,  my  Beautiful  Girl. 

IF  earth  is  an  oyster,  love  is  the  pearl, 

As  pure  as  pure  caresses ; 
Then  loosen  the  gold  of  your  hair,  my  girl, 

And  hide  my  pearl  in  your  tresses. 

So,  coral  to  coral  and  pearl  to  pearl, 
And  a  cloud  of  curls  above  me, 

0  bury  me  deep,  my  beautiful  girl, 
And  then  confess  you  love  me. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS.  49 


A  Coming  Storm, 

A  SINKING  sun,  a  sky  of  red, 

In  bars  and  banners  overhead, 

And  blown  apart  like  curtains  drawn; 

Afar  a-sea  a  blowing  sail 

That  shall  go  down  before  the  dawn ; 

And  they  are  passion-toss'd  and  pale — 

The  two  that  stand  and  look  alone 

And  silent,  as  two  shafts  of  stone 

Set  head  and  foot  above  the  dead. 


My  Song  Sung. 

WITH  buckler  and  sword  into  battle 

I  moved,  I  was  matchless  and  strong; 
I  stood  in  the  rush  and  the  rattle 

Of  shot,  and  the  spirit  of  song 
Was  upon  me ;  and  youthful  and  splendid 

My  armor  flashed  far  in  the  sun 
As  I  sang  of  my  land.    It  is  ended, 

And  all  has  been  done,  and  undone. 


Adieu. 

WELL,  we  have  threaded  through  and  through 
The  gloaming  forests.    Fairy  Isles, 
Afloat  in  sun  and  summer  smiles, 
As  fallen  stars  in  fields  of  blue. 

Some  futile  wars  with  subtile  love 
That  mortal  never  vanquished  yet, 
Some  symphonies  by  angels  set 

In  wave  below,  in  bough  above, 
Were  yours  and  mine  ;  but  here  adieu. 
3 


50  SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 


My  Graves. 

I  DESCEND  with  my  dead  in  the  trenches, 

To-night  I  bend  down  on  the  plain 
In  the  dark,  and  a  memory  wrenches 

The  soul ;  I  turn  up  to  the  rain 
The  cold  and  beautiful  faces, 

Ay,  faces  forbidden  for  years, 
Turn'd  up  to  my  face  with  the  traces 

Of  blood  to  the  white  rain  of  tears. 

Count  backward  the  years  on  your  fingers, 

While  forward  rides  yonder  white  moon, 
Till  the  soul  turns  aside,  and  it  lingers 

By  a  grave  that  was  born  of  a  June; 
By  a  grave  of  a  soul,  where  the  grasses 

Are  tangled  as  witch-woven  hair ; 
Where  foot-prints  are  not,  and  where  passes 

Not  anything  known  anywhere. 

By  a  grave  without  tombstone  or  token, 

At  a  tomb  where  not  fern  leaf  or  fir, 
Eoot  or  branch,  was  once  bended  or  broken, 

To  bestow  there  the  body  of  her ; 
For  it  lives,  and  the  soul  perish'd  only, 

And  alone  in  that  land,  with  these  hands, 
Did  I  lay  the  dead  soul,  and  all  lonely 

Does  it  lie  to  this  day  in  the  sands. 


Patience. 

IT  is  well,  may  be  so,  to  bear  losses, 
And  to  bend  and  bow  down  to  the  rod ; 

If  the  scarlet  red  bars  and  the  crosses 
Be  but  rounds  up  the  ladder  to  God. 


SONGS  OE  THE  SUKLAKDS.  51 


Charity. 

HEE  hands  were  clasped  downward  and  doubled, 
Her  head  was  held  down  and  depressed ; 
Her  bosom,  like  white  billows  troubled, 
Fell  fitful  and  rose  in  unrest ; 

Her  robes  were  all  dust,  and  disordered 
Her  glory  of  hair,  and  her  brow, 
Her  face,  that  had  lifted  and  lorded, 
Fell  pallid  and  passionless  now. 

She  heard  not  accusers  that  brought  her 
In  mockery  hurried  to  Him, 
Nor  heeded,  nor  said,  nor  besought  her 
AVith  eyes  lifted  doubtful  and  dim. 

All'crush'd  and  stone-cast  in  behavior, 
She  stood  as  a  marble  would  stand ; 
Then  the  Saviour  bent  down,  and  the  Saviour 
In  silence  wrote  on  in  the  sand. 

"What  wrote  He  ?    How  fondly  one  lingers 
And  questions,  what  holy  command 
Fell  down  from  the  beautiful  fingers 
Of  Jesus,  like  gems  in  the  sand. 

0  better  the  Scian  uncherishM 
Had  died  ere  a  note  or  device 
Of  battle  was  f  ashion'd,  than  perish'd 
This  only  line  written  by  Christ. 

He  arose  and  he  IpokM  on  the  daughter 
Of  Eve,  like  a  delicate  flower, 
And  he  heard  the  revilers  that  brought  her — 
Men  stormy,  and  strong  as  a  tower ; 

And  he  said,  "She  has  sinn'd;  let  the  blameless 
Come  forward  and  cast  the  first  stone ! " 


52  SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 

But  they,  they  fled  shamed  and  yet  shameless; 
And  she,  she  stood  white  and  alone. 

"Who  now  shall  accuse  and  arraign  us  ? 
What  man  shall  condemn  and  disown  ? 
Since  Christ  has  said  only  the  stainless 
Shall  cast  at  his  fellows  a  stone. 

For  what  man  can  bare  us  his  bosom, 
And  touch  with  his  forefinger  there, 
And  say,  'Tis  as  snow,  as  a  blossom  ? 
Beware  of  the  stainless,  beware ! 

0  woman,  born  first  to  believe  us ; 
Yea,  also  born  first  to  forget; 
Born  first  to  betray  and  deceive  us, 
Yet  first  to  repent  and  regret  I 

0  first  then  in  all  that  is  human, 
Lo !  first  where  the  Nazarene  trod, 
O  woman !   0  beautiful  woman ! 
Be  then  first  in  the  kingdom  of  God  I 


The  Amazon. 

IT  was  dark  and  dreadful !    Wide  like  an  ocean, 
Much  like  a  river  but  more  like  a  sea, 

Save  that  there  was  naught  of  the  turbulent  motion 
Of  tides,  or  of  winds  blown  back,  or  a-lee. 

Yea,  strangely  strong?  was  the  wave  and  slow, 
And  half-way  hid  in  the  dark  deep  tide, 

Great  turtles  they  paddled  them  to  and  fro, 
And  away  to  the  Isles  and  the  opposite  side. 

The  nude  black  boar  through  abundant  grass 
Stole  down  to  the  water  and  buried  his  nose, 
And  crush'd  white  teeth  till  the  bubbles  rose 

As  white  and  as  bright  as  the  globes  of  glass. 


SO^GS  OF  THE  SUXLANDS.  53 

Yea,  steadily  moved  it,  mile  upon  mile, 
Above  and  below  and  as  still  as  the  air ; 
The  bank  made  slippery  here  and  there 

By  the  slushing  slide  of  the  crocodile. 


The  Lost  Knight. 

"  I  SHALL  die,"  he  said,  "  by  the  solemn  deep  river, 
By  the  king  of  the  rivers,  and  the  mother  of  seas, 

So  far,  and  so  far  from  my  Guadalquiver, 
Near,  and  so  near  to  the  dreaded  Andes. 

"  Let  me  sing  one  song  by  the  grand  old  river, 
And  die ; "  and  he  reach'd  and  he  brake  him  a  reed 

From  the  rim  of  the  river,  where  they  lift  and  quiver, 
And  he  trimm'd  it  and  notch'd  it  with  all  his  speed. 

With  his  treacherous  blade,  in  the  sweep  of  the  trees, 
As  he  stood  with  his  head  bent  low  on  his  breast, 

And  the  vines  in  his  hair  and  the  wave  to  his  knees, 
And  bow'd  like  to  one  who  would  die  to  rest. 

"  I  shall  fold  my  hands,  for  this  is  the  river 
Of  death,"  he  said,  "  and  the  sea-green  Isle 

Is  an  Eden  set  by  the  gracious  Giver 
Wherein  to  rest."     He  listened  the  while, 

Then  lifted  his  head,  then  lifted  a  hand 

Arch'd  over  his  brow,  and  he  lean'd  and  listened — 

'Twas  only  a  bird  on  a  border  of  sand, — 

The  dark  stream  eddy'd  and  gleam'd  and  glistenM 

Stately  and  still  as  the  march  of  a  moon, 
And  the  martial  notes  from  the  Isle  were  gone, — 
Gone  as  a  dream  dies  out  with  the  dawn, 

And  gone  as  far  as  the  night  from  the  noon. 


54  SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 


Music  in  the  Forest. 

THE  quick  leaves  quiver'd,  and  the  sunlight  danced ; 
As  the  boy  sang  sweet,  and  the  birds  said,  "  Sweet ; " 
And  the  tiger  crept  close,  and  lay  low  at  his  feet, 

And  he  sheath'd  his  claws  in  the  sun,  entranced. 

The  serpent  that  hung  from  the  sycamore  bough, 
And  sway'd  his  head  in  a  crescent  above, 

Had  folded  his  neck  to  the  white  limb  now, 
And  fondled  it  close  like  a  great  black  love. 


The  Fainting  Knight. 

gently  as  touch  of  the  truest  of  woman, 
They  lifted  him  up  from  the  earth  as  he  fell, 
And  into  the  boat,  with  a  half-hidden  swell 
Of  the  heart  that  was  holy  and  tenderly  human. 

They  spoke. low- voiced  as  a  vesper  prayer; 
They  pillowed  his  head  as  only  the  hand 
Of  woman  can  pillow,  and  push'd  from  the  land, 

And  the  Queen  she  sat  threading  the  gold  of  his  hair. 

Then  away  with  the  wave,  and  away  to  the  Isles, 
In  a  song  of  the  oars  of  the  crescented  fleet, 

That  timed  together  in  musical  wiles 
In  bubbles  of  melodies  swift  and  sweet. 


The  Storm  Shall  Pass.     . 

'Mid  white  Sierras,  that  slope  to  the  sea, 
Lie  turbulent  lands.     Go  dwell  in  the  skies, 

And  the  thundering  tongues  of  Yosemite 
Shall  persuade  you  to  silence,  and  you  shall  be  wise. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLA^DS.  55 

Yea,  men  may  deride,  and  the  thing  it  is  well ; 
Turn  well  and  aside  from  the  one  wild  note 
To  the  song  of  the  bird  with  the  tame,  sweet  throat ; 

But  the  sea  sings  on  in  his  cave  and  shell. 

Let  the  white  moons  ride,  let  the  red  stars  fall, 
0  great,  sweet  sea !    0  fearful  and  sweet ! 
Thy  songs  they  repeat,  and  repeat,  and  repeat : 

And  these,  I  say,  shall  survive  us  all. 

I  but  sing  for  the  love  of  song  and  the  few 
Who  loved  me  first  and  shall  love  me  last; 
And  the  storm  shall  pass  as  the  storms  have  pass'd, 

For  never  were  clouds  but  the  sun  came  through. 


The  Origin  of  Man. 

IK  the  days  when  my  mother,  the  Earth,  was  young, 
And  you  all  were  not,  nor  the  likeness  of  you, 

She  walk'd  in  her  maidenly  prime  among 
The  moonlit  stars  in  the  boundless  blue. 

Then  the  great  sun  lifted  his  shining  shield, 
And  he  flash'd  his  sword  as  the  soldiers  do, 

And  he  moved  like  a  king  full  over  the  field, 
And  he  look'd,  and  he  loved  her  brave  and  true. 

And  looking  afar  from  the  ultimate  rim 
As  he  lay  at  rest  in  a  reach  of  light, 
He  beheld  her  walking  alone  at  night, 

Where  the  buttercup  stars  in  their  beauty  swim. 

So  he  rose  up  flush'd  in  his  love,  and  he  ran, 
And  he  reach'd  his  arms,  and  around  her  waist 

He  wound  them  strong  like  a  love-struck  man, 
And  he  kiss'd  and  embraced  her,  brave  and  chaste. 


56  SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 

So  lie  nursed  his  love  like  a  babe  at  its  birth, 
And  he  warm'd  in  his  love  as  the  long  years  ran, 

Then  embraced  her  again,  and  sweet  mother  Earth 
Was  a  mother  indeed,  and  her  child  was  man. 

The  sun  is  the  sire,  the  mother  is  earth ! 

What  more  do  you  know  ?  what  more  do  I  need? 
The  one  he  begot,  and  the  one  gave  birth, 

And  I  love  them  both,  and  let  laugh  at  your  creed. 


Gold. 

upon  this  earth  a  spot 
Where  clinking  coins,  that  clink  as  chains 
Upon  the  souls  of  men,  are  not ; 
Nor  man  is  measured  for  his  gains 
Of  gold  that  stream  with  crimson  stains. 

The  rivers  run  unmaster'd  yet, 
Unmeasured  sweep  their  sable  bredes : 

The  pampas  unpossess'd  is  set 
With  stormy  banners  of  her  steeds, 
That  rival  man  in  martial  deeds. 

0  men  that  fret  as  frets  the  main ! 

You  irk  one  with  your  eager  gaze 
Down  in  the  earth  for  fat  increase — 

Eternal  talks  of  gold  and  gain, 
Your  shallow  wit,  your  shallow  ways  . . 

And  breaks  my  soul  across  the  shoal 
As  breakers  break  on  shallow  seas. 


The  Lake. 

AND  strangely  still,  and  more  strangely  sweet, 
Was  the  lake  that  lay  in  its  cradle  of  fern, 
As  still  as  a  moon  Avith  her  horns  that  turn 

In  the  night,  like  lamps  to  some  delicate  feet. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS.  57 


On  the  Isles. 

AND  here  the  carpets  of  Nature  were  spread, 
Made  pink  with  blossoms  and  fragrant  bloom; 

Her  soft  couch,  canopied  overhead, 
Allured  to  sleep  with  the  deep  perfume. 

The  sarsaparilla  had  woven  its  thread 

So  through  and  through,  like  the  threads  of  gold; 

'Twas  stronger  than  thongs  in  its  thousandfold, 
And  on  every  hand  and  up  overhead 

Ean  thick  as  threads  on  the  rim  of  a  reel, 

Through  red  leaf  and  dead  leaf,  bough  and  Tine, 
The  green  and  the  gray  leaf,  coarse  and  fine, 

And  the  cactus  tinted  with  cochineal. 


Watching  the  Bathers. 

THE  great  trees  shadow'd  the  bow-tipp'd  tide, 
And  nodded  their  plumes  from  the  opposite  side, 
As  if  to  whisper,  Take  care !  take  care  ! 
But  the  meddlesome  sunshine  here  and  there, 

Kept  pointing  a  finger  right  under  the  trees, — 
Kept  shifting  the  branches  and  wagging  a  hand 
At  the  round  brown  limbs  on  the  border  of  sand, 

And  seem'd  to  whisper,  Ho !  what  are  these  ? 

The  gold-barr'd  butterflies  to  and  fro 

And  over  the  waterside  wanderM  and  wove 
As  heedless  and  idle  as  clouds  that  rove 

And  drift  by  the  peaks  of  perpetual  snow. 

A  monkey  swung  out  from  a  bough  in  the  skies, 
White  whiskered  and  ancient,  and  wisest  of  all 
Of  his  populous  race,  and  he  heard  them  call 

And  he  watch'd  them  long,  with  his  head  sidewise, 


58  SONGS  OF  THE  SUKLAKDS. 

From  under  his  brows  of  amber  and  brown, 
All  patient  and  silent  and  never  once  stirr'd  ; 

Then  he  shook  his  head  and  he  hasten'd  him  down 
To  his  army  below  and  said  never  a  word. 


The  New  Land  of  Song. 

WHEST  spires  shall  shine  on  the  Amazon's  shore, 
From  temples  of  God,  and  time  shall  have  roll'd 
Like  a  scroll  from  the  border  the  limitless  wold; 

When  the  tiger  is  tamed,  and  the  mono  no  more 

Swings  over  the  waters  to  chatter  and  call 
To  the  crocodile  sleeping  in  rushes  and  fern ; 
When  cities  shall  gleam,  and  their  battlements  burn 

In  the  sunsets  of  gold,  where  the  cocoa-nuts  fall ; 

'Twill  be  something  to  lean  from  the  stars  and  to  know 
That  the   engine,   red-mouthing    with    turbulent 

tongue, 

The  white  ships  that  come,  and  the  cargoes  that  go, 
We  invoked  them  of  old  when  the  nations  were 
young : 

'Twill  be  something  to  know  that  we  named  them  of 

old, — 

That  we  said  to  the  nations,  Lo  !  here  is  the  fleece 
That  allures  to  the  rest,  and  the  perfectest  peace, 

With  its  foldings  of  sunlight  shed  mellow  like  gold : 

That  we  were  the  Carson  s  in  kingdoms  untrod, 
And  follow'd  the  trail  through  the  rustle  of  leaves, 
And  stood  by  the  wave  where  solitude  weaves 

Her  garments  of  mosses,  and  lonely  as  God : 

That  we  did  make  venture  when  singers  were  young, 
Inviting  from  Europe,  from  long-trodden  lands 
That  are  easy  of  journeys,  and  holy  from  hands 

Laid  upon  by  the  Masters  when  giants  had  tongue  : 


SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS.  59 

The  prophet  should  lead  us, — and  lifting  a  hand 
To  the  world  on  the  way,  like  a  white  guiding  star, 
Point  out  and  allure  to  the  fair  and  unknown, 

And  the  far,  and  the  hidden  delights  of  a  land. 

Behold  my  Sierras !  there  singers  shall  throng ; 
The  Andes  shall  break  through  the  wings  of  the 

night 
As  the  fierce  condor  breaks  through  the  clouds  in 

his  flight ; 
And  I  here  plant  the  Cross  and  possess  them  with  song. 


Across  the  Continent. 

WE  glide  through  golden  seas  of  grain; 
We  shoot,  a  shining  comet,  through 
The  mountain  range  against  the  blue 
And  then  below  the  walls  of  snow, 
We  blow  the  desert  dust  amain ; 
We  brush  the  gay  madrona  tree, 
We  greet  the  orange  groves  below, — 
We  rest  beneath  the  oaks  ;  and  we 
Have  cleft  a  continent  in  twain. 


The  Lakes  and  the  West. 

0  SEAS  in  a  land !  0  lakes  of  mine  ! 
By  the  love  I  bear  and  the  songs  I  bring 
Be  glad  with  me  !  lift  your  waves  and  sing 
A  song  in  the  reeds  that  surround  your  isles  ! 
A  song  of  joy  for  this  sun  that  smiles, 
For  this  land  I  love  and  this  age  and  sign  ; 
For  the  peace  that  is  and  the  perils  pass'd ; 
For  the  hope  that  is  and  the  rest  at  last ! 

0  heart  of  the  world's  heart !    West !  my  West ! 
Look  up !  look  out !    There  are  fields  of  kine, 


60  SOKGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 

There  are  clover-fields  that  are  red  as  wine  ; 
And  a  world  of  kine  in  the  fields  take  rest, 
And  ruminate  in  the  shade  of  trees 
That  are  white  with  blossoms  or  brown  with  bees. 

There  are  emerald  seas  of  corn  and  cane ; 
There  are  cotton-fields  like  a  foamy  main, 
To  the  far-off  South  where  the  sun  was  born, 
Where  the  fair  have  birth  and  the  loves  knew  morn, 
There  are  isles  of  oak  and  a  harvest  plain, 
Where  brown  men  bend  to  the  bending  grain  ; 
There  are  temples  of  God  and  towns  new-born, 
And  beautiful  homes  of  beautiful  brides  ; 
And  the  hearts  of  oak  and  the  hands  of  horn 
Have  fashion'd  them  all  and  a  world  besides. 


The  Sweetest. 

SWEETER  than  swans  are  a  maiden's  graces  ! 
Sweeter  than  fruits  are  the  kisses  of  morn  I 
Sweeter  than  babes  is  a  love  new-born, 

But  sweeter  than  all  are  a  love's  embraces. 


Down  into  the  Dust. 

Is  it  worth  while  that  we  jostle  a  brother 
Bearing  his  load  on  the  rough  road  of  life  ? 

Is  it  worth  while  that  we  jeer  at  each  other 

In  blackness  of  heart  ? — that  we  war  to  the  knife  ? 
God  pity  us  all  in  our  pitiful  strife. 

God  pity  us  all  as  we  jostle  each  other ; 

God  pardon  us  all  for  the  triumphs  we  feel 
When  a  fellow  goes  down  'neath  his  load  on  the  heather, 

Pierced  to  the  heart :  words  are  keener  than  steel, 

And  mightier  far  for  woe  or  for  weal. 


SOKGS  OF  THE  SUHLANDS.  61 

Is  it  worth,  while  that  we  battle  to  humble 
Some  poor  fellow-soldier  down  into  the  dust? 

God  pity  us  all !    Time  eftsoon  will  tumble 
All  of  us  together  like  leaves  in  a  gust, 
Humbled  indeed  down  into  the  dust. 


Palm  Leaves. 

THATCH  of  palm  and  a  patch  of  clover, 
Breath  of  balm  in  a  field  of  brown, 

The  clouds  blew  up  and  the  birds  flew  over, 
And  I  look'd  upward ;  but  who  look'd  down  ? 

Who  was  true  in  the  test  that  tried  us  ? 

Who  was  it  mock'd  ?    Who  now  may  mourn 
The  loss  of  a  love  that  a  cross  denied  us, 

With  folded  hands  and  a  heart  forlorn  ? 

God  forgive  when  the  fair  forget  us. 

The  worth  of  a  smile,  the  weight  of  a  tear, 
Why,  who  can  measure  ?    The  fates  beset  us. 

We  laugh  a  moment;  we  mourn  a  year. 


At  Bethlehem. 

WITH  incense  and  myrrh  and  sweet  spices, 

Frankincense  and  sacredest  oil 
In  ivory,  chased  with  devices 

Cut  quaint  and  in  serpentine  coil , 
Heads  bared,  and  held  down  to  the  bosom  ; 

Brows  massive  with  wisdom  and  bronzed ; 
Beards  white  as  the  white  May  in  blossom, 

And  borne  to  the  breast  and  bey<xnd, — 
Came  the  Wise  of  the  East,  bending  lowly 

On  staffs,  with  their  garments  girt  round. 


62  SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 

With  girdles  of  hair,  to  the  Holy 

Child  Christ,  in  their  sandals.     The  sound 

Of  song  and  thanksgiving  ascended — 
Deep  night !    Yet  some  shepherds  afar 

Heard  a  wail  with  the  worshipping  blended, 
And  they  then  knew  the  sign  of  the  star. 


Unrest. 

we  most  need  rest,  and  the  perfect  sleep, 
Some  hand  will  reach  from  the  dark,  and  keep 

The  curtains  drawn  and  the  pillows  toss'd 
Like  a  tide  of  foam ;  and  one  will  say 
At  night, — 0  Heaven,  that  it  were  day ! 
And  one  by  night  through  the  misty  tears 
Will  say, — 0  Heaven,  the  days  are  years, 

And  I  would  to  Heaven  that  the  waves  were  crossed. 


In  Yosemite  Valley. 

SOUKD!  sound!  sound! 

0  colossal  walls,  as  crown'd 
In  one  eternal  thunder! 

Sound !  sound !  sound  ! 
0  ye  oceans  overhead, 
While  we  walk,  subdued  in  wonder, 
In  the  ferns  and  grasses,  unde 
And  beside  the  swift  Merced  ! 

Sweep  !  sweep !  sweep ! 
0  ye  heaven-born  and  deep, 
In  one  dread,  unbroken  chorus ! 
We  may  wonder  or  may  weep, — 
We  may  wait  on  G-od  before  us ; 
We  may  shout  or  lift  a  hand, — 
We  may  bow  down  and  deplore  us, 
But  may  never  understand. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS.  63 

Beat!  beat!  beat! 
We  advance,  but  would  retreat 
From  this  restless,  broken  breast 
Of  the  earth  in  a  convulsion. 
We  would  rest,  but  dare  not  rest, 
For  the  angel  of  expulsion 
From  this  Paradise  below 
Waves  us  onward  and  ...  we  go. 


Faith. 

THERE  were  whimsical  turns  of  the  waters, 
There  were  rhythmical  talks  of  the  sea, — 

There  were  gather  d  the  darkest-eyed  daughters 
Of  men,  by  the  dark  Galilee. 

A  blowing  full  sail,  and  a  parting 

From  multitudes,  living  in  him, 
A  trembling  of  lips,  and  tears  starting 

From  eyes  that  look'd  downward  and  dim. 

A  mantle  of  night  and  a  marching 

Of  storms,  and  a  sounding  of  seas, 
Of  furrows  of  foam  and  of  arching 

Black  billows ;  a  bending  of  knees ; 
The  rising  of  Christ — an  entreating — 

Hands  reach'd  to  the  seas  as  he  saith, 
"  Have  Faith  ! "    And  lo !  still  are  repeating 

All  seas,  "Have  Faith!   Have  Faith!   Have  Faith  f 


Beyond  Jordan. 

AND  they  came  to  him,  mothers  of  Judah, 
Dark-eyed  and  in  splendor  of  hair, 

Bearing  down  over  shoulders  of  beauty, 
And  bosoms  half  hidden,  half  bare ; 


64  SOHGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS. 

And  they  brought  him  their  babes  and  besought  him 

Half  kneeling,  with  suppliant  air, 
To  bless  the  brown  cherubs  they  brought  him, 

With  holy  hands  laid  in  their  hair. 

Then  reaching  his  hands  he  said,  lowly, 
"  Of  such  is  my  Kingdom ; "  and  then 

Took  the  brown  little  babes  in  the  holy 
White  hands  of  the  Saviour  of  men ; 

Held  them  close  to  his  heart  and  caress'd  them, 
Put  his  face  down  to  theirs  as  in  prayer, 

Put  their  hands  to  his  neck,  and  so  bless'd  them 
With  baby  hands  hid  in  his  hair. 


The  Last  Supper. 

WHAT  song  sang  the  twelve  with  the  Saviour 
When  finished  the  sacrament  wine  ? 

Were  they  bow'd  and  subdued  in  behavior, 
Or  bold  as  made  bold  with  a  sign  ? 

What  sang  they^  ?    What  sweet  song  of  Zion 
With  Christ  in  their  midst  like  a  crown  ? 

While  here  sat  Saint  Peter,  the  lion  ; 
And  there  like  a  lamb,  with  head  down, 

Sat  Saint  John,  with  his  silken  and  raven 
Eich  hair  on  his  shoulders,  and  eyes 

Lifting  up  to  the  faces  unshaven 
Like  a  sensitive  child's  in  surprise. 

Was  the  song  as  strong  fishermen  swinging 
Their  nets  full  of  hope  to  the  sea  ? 

Or  low,  like  the  ripple-wave,  singing 
Sea-songs  on  their  loved  Galilee  ? 

Were  they  sad  with  foreshadow  of  sorrows, 
Like  the  birds  that  sing  low  when  the  breeze 


SONGS   OF  THE   SUNLANDS.  G5 

Is  tip-toe  with  a  tale  of  to-morrows, — 
Of  earthquakes  and  sinking  of  seas  ? 

Ah !  soft  was  their  song  as  the  waves  are 

That  fall  in  low  musical  moans ; 
And  sad  I  should  say  as  the  winds  are 

That  blow  by  the  white  gravestones. 


The  Nazarene. 

THE  years  may  lay  hand  on  fair  heaven ; 

May  place  and  displace  the  red  stars ; 
May  stain  them,  as  blood-stains  are  driven 

At  sunset  in  beautiful  bars  ; 

May  shroud  them  in  black  till  they  fret  us 
As  clouds  with  their  showers  of  tears ; 

May  grind  us  to  dust  and  forget  us, 
May  the  years,  0,  the  pitiless  years ! 

The  precepts  of  Christ  are  beyond  them; 

The  truths  by  the  Nazarene  taught, 
"With  the  tramp  of  the  ages  npon  them, 

They  endure  as  though  ages  were  nought. 


A  Resting-Place. 

a  grassy  slope  above  the  sea, 
The  utmost  limit  of  the  westmost  land. 
In  savage,  gnarl'd  and  antique  majesty 
The  great  trees  belt  about  the  place,  and  stand 
In  guard,  with  mailed  limb  and  lifted  head 
Against  the  cold  approaching  civic  pride. 
The  foamy  brooklets  seaward  leap  ;  the  bland 
Still  air  is  fresh  with  touch  of  wood  and  tide, 
And  peace,  eternal  peace,  possesses  wild  and  wide. 


66  SONGS  OF  THE  SUKLANDS. 

Here  I  return,  here  I  abide  and  rest ; 
Some  flocks  and  herds  shall  feed  along  the  stream ; 
Some  corn  and  climbing  vines  shall  make  us  blest 
With  bread  and  luscious  fruit .  .  .  The  sunny  dream 
Of  savage  men  in  moccasins,  that  seem 
To  come  and  go  in  silence,  girt  in  shell, 
Before  a  sun-clad  cabin-door,  I  deem 
The  harbinger  of  peace.     Hope  weaves  her  spell 
Again  about  the  wearied  heart,  and  all  is  well. 

Here  I  shall  sit  in  sunlit  life's  decline 
Beneath  my  vine  and  sombre  verdant  tree. 
Some  tawny  maids  in  other  tongues  than  mine 
Shall  minister.     Some  memories  shall  be 
Before  me.     I  shall  sit  and  I  shall  see, 
That  last  vast  day  that  dawn  shall  re-inspire, 
The  sun  fall  down  upon  the  farther  sea, 
Fall  wearied  down  to  rest,  and  so  retire, 
A  splendid  sinking  isle  of  far-off  fading  fire. 


Remembrance.* 

O  BOY  at  peace  upon  the  Delaware ! 

0  brother  mine,  that  fell  in  battle  front 
Of  life,  so  braver,  nobler  far  than  I, 
The  wanderer  who  vexed  all  gentleness, 
Eeceive  this  song ;  I  have  but  this  to  give. 

1  may  not  rear  the  rich  man's  ghostly  stone  ; 
But  you,  through  all  my  follies  loving  still 
And  trusting  me  ...  nay,  I  shall  not  forget. 

A  failing  hand  in  mine,  and  fading  eyes 

That  look'd  in  mine  as  from  another  land, 

You  said :  "  Some  gentler  things ;  a  song  for  Peace. 

'Mid  all  your  songs  for  men  one  song  for  God." 

And  then  the  dark-brow'd  mother,  Death,  bent  down 

Her  face  to  yours,  and  you  were  born  to  Him. 

*A  prelude  to  "Olive  Leaves."  The  brother  alluded  to 
was,  perhaps,  the  nearest  of  all  friends  to  Mr.  Miller's  heart, 
because  he  understood  and  believed  in  him.  He  died  at 
Easton,  Penn.,  in  1871. 


UNWRITTEN  HISTORY; 

OR, 
LIFE    AMONGST    THE    MODOCS. 


rriHIS  book  was  begun  in  California— upon  the  author's  return  after  an 
absence  of  twelve  years— as  an  autobiography,  but  was  mostly  com 
posed  in  London.  The  opening  chapters,  which  abound  in  descriptions 
of  the  Mount  Shasta  regions,  were  written  amid  their  sublime  scenery, 
and  by  the  council  fires  of  the  Shasta  and  Modoc  tribes  of  Indians.  When 
asked  how  much  of  truth  there  was  in  the  narrative,  the  reply  of  the  author 
was,  "More  than  poetry."  It  is,  in  fact,. his  life  with  embellishments. 
Published  first  by  Richard  Bentley  &  Sons,  London,  and  afterward  by  the 
American  Publishing  Co.,  Hartford,  Conn.,  in  1873. 


Mistaken  and  misunderstood, 

My  Jwt  magnetic  heart  sought  round 

And  craved  of  att  the  souls  I  knew 

But  one  responsive  throb  or  touch, 

Or  thrill  that  flashes  through  and  through. 

Deem  you  that  I  demanded  much  ?  .  .  . 

Not  one  congenial  soul  was  found. 


69 


Shasta  Unrivalled. 

ONELY  as  God,  and  white  as  a  winter  moon, 
Mount  Shasta  starts  up  sudden  and  solitary 
from  the  heart  of  the  great  black  forests  of 
Northern  California.  You  would  hardly 
call  Mount  Shasta  a  part  of  the  Sierras;  you 
would  say  rather  that  it  is  the  great  white  tower  of 
some  ancient  and  eternal  wall,  with  here  and  there  the 
white  walls  overthrown. 

It  has  no  rival !  There  is  not  even  a  snow-crowned 
subject  in  sight  of  its  dominion.  A  shining  pyramid 
in  mail  of  everlasting  frosts  and  ice,  the  sailor  some 
times,  in  a  day  of  singular  clearness,  catches  glimpses 
of  it  from  the  sea  a  hundred  miles  away  to  the  west ; 
and  it  may  be  seen  from  the  dome  of  the  capital  three 
hundred  miles  distant.  The  immigrant  coming  from 
the  east  beholds  the  snowy,  solitary  pillar  from  afar 
put  on  the  arid  sage-brush  plains,  and  lifts  his  hands 
in  silence  as  in  answer  to  a  sign. 


Trojan  Miners. 

THESE  are  mining  camps.  Men  are  there,  down  in 
these  dreadful  canons,  out  of  sight  of  the  sun,  swal 
lowed  up,  buried  in  the  impenetrable  gloom  of  the 
forests,  toiling  for  gold.  Each  one  of  these  camps  is  a 
world  in  itself.  History,  romance,  tragedy,  poetry  in 
every  one  of  them.  They  are  connected  together,  and 
reach  the  outer  world  only  by  a  narrow  little  pack 
trail,  stretching  through  the  timber,  stringing  round 
the  mountains,  barely  wide  enough  to  admit  of  foot 
men  and  little  Mexican  mules  with  their  apparajos,  to 
pass  in  single  file.  We  will  descend  into  one  of  these 
camps  by-and-by.  I  dwelt  there  a  year,  many  and 


70  UNWBITTEK  HISTOKY. 

many  a  year  ago.  I  shall  picture  that  camp  as  it  was, 
and  describe  events  as  they  happened.  Giants  were 
there,  great  men  were  there.  They  were  very  strong, 
energetic  and  resolute,  and  hence  were  neither  gentle 
or  sympathetic.  They  were  honorable,  noble,  brave 
and  generous,  and  yet  they  would  have  dragged  a 
Trojan  around  the  wall  by  the  heels  and  thought 
nothing  of  it.  Coming  suddenly  into  the  country 
with  prejudices  against  and  apprehensions  of  the  In 
dians,  of  whom  they  knew  nothing  save  through 
novels,  they  of  course  were  in  no  mood  to  study  their 
nature.  Besides,  they  knew  that  they  were  in  a  way, 
trespassers  if  not  invaders,  that  the  Government  had 
never  treated  for  the  land  or  offered  any  terms  what 
ever  to  the  Indians,  and  like  most  men  who  feel  that 
they  are  somehow  in  the  wrong,  do  not  care  to  get 
on  terms  with  their  antagonists.  They  would  have 
named  the  Indian  a  Trojan,  and  dragged  him  around, 
not  only  by  the  heels  but  by  the  scalp,  rather  than 
taken  time  or  trouble,  as  a  rule,  to  get  in  the  right  of 
the  matter. 

I  say  that  the  greatest,  the  grandest  body  of  men 
that  have  ever  been  gathered  together  since  the  siege 
of  Troy,  was  once  here  on  the  Pacific.  I  grant  that 
they  were  rough  enough  sometimes.  I  admit  that 
they  took  a  peculiar  delight  in  periodical  six-shooter 
war-dances,  these  wild-bearded,  hairy-breasted  men, 
and  that  they  did  a  great  deal  of  promiscuous  killing 
among  each  other,  but  then  they  did  it  in  such  a 
manly  sort  of  way ! 


A  Beaver  Hat. 

THESE  men  of  the  mountains  always  have  despised 
and  perhaps  always  will  despise  a  beaver  hat.  Why  ? 
Here  is  food  for  reflection.  Here  is  a  healthy,  well- 
seated  antipathy  to  an  innocent  article  of  dress,  with 
out  any  discovered  reason.  Let  the  profound  look 
into  this. 


UNWRITTEN  HISTORY.  71 

As  for  myself,  I  have  looked  into  this  thing,  but  am 
not  satisfied.  The  only  reason  I  can  give  for  this 
enmity  to  the  "  tile  "  in  the  mountains  of  California, 
is  not  that  the  miners  hold  that  there  is  anything 
wrong  in  the  act  or  fact  of  a  man  wearing  a  beaver, 
but  because  it  invests  the  man  with  a  dignity — an 
artificial  dignity,  it  is  true,  but  none  the  less  a  dig 
nity — too  far  above  that  of  a  man  who  wears  a  slouch 
or  felt.  The  beaver  hat  is  the  minority,  the  slouch 
hat  is  the  majority ;  and,  like  all  great  majorities,  is  a 
mob — a  cruel,  heartless,  arrogant,  insolent  mob,  igno 
rant  and  presumptive.  The  beaver  hat  is  a  missionary 
among  cannibals  in  the  California  mines.  And  the 
saddest  part  of  it  all  is,  that  there  is  no  hope  of  reform. 
Tracts  on  this  subject  would  be  useless.  Fancy  a 
beaver  hat  in  a  dripping  tunnel,  or  by  the  splashing 
flume  or  dumping  derrick  ! 

Born  of  a  low  element  in  our  nature  is  this  antago 
nism  to  the  beaver  hat ;  cruel  as  it  is  curious,  selfish, 
but  natural. 

The  Englishman  knows  well  the  power  and  dignity 
of  a  beaver  hat.  Go  into  the  streets  of  London  and 
look  about  you.  Surely  some  power  has  issued  an 
order  not  much  unlike  that  of  the  famous  one-armed 
sailor — "  England  expects  every  man  to  wear  a  beaver 
hat." 


Opposition  to  a  Coin  Currency. 

FOR  my  own  part,  I  would  banish  gold  and  silver, 
as  a  commercial  medium,  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
I  would  abolish  the  use  of  gold  and  silver  altogether, 
have  paper  currency,  and  but  one  currency  in  all  the 
world.  I  propose  to  take  all  the  strong  men  now  in 
the  mines  down  from  the  mountains,  and  build  ships 
and  cities  by  the  sea,  and  make  a  permanent  common 
wealth. 

These  thousands  of  men  can,  at  best,  in  a  year's 
time,  only  take  out  a  few  millions  of  gold.  A  ship 


72  UNWRITTEN  HISTOKY. 

goes  to  sea  and  sinks  with  all  these  millions,  and  thus 
all  that  labor  is  lost  to  the  world  forever.  Had  these 
millions  been  in  paper,  only  a  few  hours'  labor  would 
have  been  lost.  There  are  two  hundred  thousand 
men,  the  best  and  bravest  men  in  the  world,  wasting 
the  best  years  of  their  lives  getting  out  this  gold. 
They  are  turning  over  the  mountains,  destroying  the 
forests,  filling  up  the  rivers.  They  make  the  land 
unfit  even  for  savages.  Take  them  down  from  the 
mountains,  throw  one-half  of  their  strength  and 
energy  against  the  wild,  rich  sea-border  of  the  Pacific, 
and  we  would  have,  instead  of  these  broken  moun 
tains,  muddied  rivers,  and  ruined  forests,  such  an 
Eden  as  has  not  been  seen  by  man  since  the  days  of 
Adam. 


An  Explosion. 

A  DULL  crash,  a  dreadful  sound  that  has  no  name, 
and  cannot  be  described,  started  me  to  my  feet. 
Bark  and  poles  and  pieces  of  wood  came  raining  on 
our  roof;  then  there  was  not  a  sound,  not  even  a 
whisper. 

The  poor  Indian,  so  accustomed  to  arrange  and 
prepare  their  arms  and  such  things  by  the  camp  fire, 
had  forgotten  my  caution  perhaps,  for  somehow  the 
powder  had,  while  the  Indians  were  unpacking  and 
arranging  it  in  the  lodge,  ignited,  and  they,  and  all 
the  fruits  of  pur  hard  and  reckless  enterprise,  were 
blown  to  nothing. 

The  Indians  of  the  camp,  and  the  three  surviving 
companions  of  my  venture,  were  overcome.  Their 
old  superstition  returned.  They  sat  down  with  their 
backs  to  the  dead  bodies,  hid  their  faces,  and  waited 
till  the  medicine-man  came  from  the  camp  on  the 
lake  below. 

About  midnight  the  women  began  to  wail  for  the 
dead  from  the  hills.  What  a  wail,  and  what  a  night ! 


UNWRITTEN  HISTORY.  73 

There  is  no  sound  so  sad,  so  heartbroken  and  pitiful, 
as  this  long  and  sorrowful  lamentation.  Sometimes 
it  is  almost  savage,  it  is  loud,  fierce,  and  vehement; 
your  heart  sinks,  you  sympathize,  and  you  think  of 
your  own  dead,  and  you  lament  with  them  the  com 
mon  lot  of  man.  Then  your  soul  widens  out,  and 
you  begin  to  go  down  with  them  to  the  shore  of  the 
dark  water,  to  stand  there,  to  be  with  them  and  of 
them,  there  in  the  great  mysterious  shadow  of  death, 
to  feel  how  much  we  are  all  alike,  and  how  little  dif 
ference  there  is  in  the  destinies,  the  sorrows,  and  the 
sympathies  of  the  children  of  men. 


The  Faithful  Heroine. 

SHE  came  about  midnight,  the  true  and  faithful 
little  savage,  the  heroine,  the  red  star  of  my  dreadful 
life,  crouching  on  the  roof,  and  laid  hold  of  the  bars 
one  by  one,  and  bent  them  till  I  could  pass  my  head 
and  shoulders.  Then  she  drew  me  through,  almost 
carried  me  in  her  arms,  and  in  another  moment  we 
touched  the  steep  but  solid  earth. 

She  hurried  me  up  the  hill-side  to  the  edge  of  a 
thicket  of  chaparral.  I  could  go  no  further.  I  fell 
upon  my  knees  and  clasped  my  hands.  I  bent  down 
my  face  and  kissed  and  kissed  the  earth  as  you  would 
kiss  a  sister  you  had  not  seen  for  years.  I  arose  and 
clasped  the  bushes  in  my  arms,  and  stripped  the  fra 
grant  myrtle-leaves  by  handfuls.  I  kissed  my  hands 
to  the  moon,  the  stars,  and  began  to  shout  and  leap 
like  a  child.  She  laid  her  hand  on  my  mouth,  and 
almost  angrily  seized  me  by  the  arm.  I  turned  and  I 
kissed  her,  or  rather  only  the  presence  and  touch  of 
her.  I  lifted  her  fingers  to  my  lips,  her  robe,  her 
hair,  as  she  led  me  over  the  hill,  around  and  down  to 
a  trail.  There,  in  answer  to  the  night-bird  call,  an 
Indian,  a  brave,  reckless  fellow,  who  had  been  with 
me  in  many  a  bold  adventure,  led  three  horses  from  a 
thicket. 

4 


74  UNWKITTEST  HISTOKY. 


A  California  Moon. 

WHAT  a  glorious  moon!  Only  such  a  moon  as 
California  can  afford.  A  long  white  cloud  of  swans 
stretched  overhead,  croaking  dolefully  enough ;  the 
sea  of  evergreen  pines  that  rolled  about  the  bluff  and 
belted  the  base  of  Shasta  was  sable  as  a  pall,  but  the 
snowy  summit  in  the  splendors  of  the  moon,  flashed 
like  a  pyramid  of  silver!  All  these  mountains,  all 
these  mighty  forests,  were  to  me  as  a  school-boy's 
play-ground,  the  playmates  gone,  the  master  dead ! 


In  the  Shadow  of  the  Pines. 

TO-DAY,  when  the  sun  was  low,  we  sat  down  in  the 
shadow  of  the  pines  on  a  mossy  trunk,  a  little  way 
out  from  the  door.  The  sun  threw  lances  against  the 
shining  mail  of  Shasta,  and  they  glanced  aside  and 
fell,  quivering,  at  our  feet,  on  the  quills  and  dropping 
acorns.  A  dreamy  sound  of  waters  came  up  through 
the  tops  of  the  alder  and  madrono  trees  below  us. 


At  Peace. 

THE  world,  no  doubt,  went  on  in  its  strong,  old 
way,  afar  off,  but  we  did  not  hear  it.  The  sailing  of 
ships,  the  conventions  of  men,  the  praise  of  men,  and 
the  abuse  of  men;  the  gathering  together  of  the  fair 
in  silks,  and  laces,  and  diamonds  under  the  lights ; 
the  success  or  defeat  of  this  measure  or  of  that  man; 
profit  and  loss ;  the  rise  and  fall  of  stocks :  what  were 
they  all  to  us  ? 

Peace  !  After  many  a  year  of  battle  with  the  world, 
we  had  retreated,  thankful  for  a  place  of  retreat,  and 
found  rest — peace.  Now  and  then  an  acorn  dropped ; 


HISTORY.  75 

now  and  then  an  early  leaf  fell  down;  and  once  I 
heard  the  whistle  of  an  antlered  deer  getting  his  herd 
together  to  lead  them  down  the  mountain  ;  but  that 
was  all  that  broke  the  perfect  stillness.  A  chipmunk 
dusted  across  the  burrs,  mounted  the  further  end  of 
the  mossy  trunk,  lifted  on  his  hind  legs,  and  looked 
all  around ;  then,  finding  no  hand  against  him,  let 
himself  down,  ran  past  my  elbow  on  to  the  ground 
again,  and  gathered  in  his  paws,  then  into  his  mouth, 
an  acorn  at  our  feet.  Peace !  Peace !  Who,  my 
little  brown  neighbor  in  the  striped  jacket,  who 
would  have  allowed  you  to  take  that,  even  that  acorn, 
in  peace,  down  in  the  busy,  battling  world  ?  But  we 
are  above  it.  The  storms  of  the  social  sea  may  blow, 
the  surf  may  break  against  the  rocky  base  of  this 
retreat,  may  even  sweep  a  little  way  into  the  sable 
fringe  of  firs,  but  it  shall  never  reach  us  here. 


Mount  Shasta. 

COLUMN  upon  column  of  storm-stained  tamarack, 
strong-tossing  pines,  and  warlike-looking  firs  have 
rallied  here.  They  stand  with  their  backs  against  this 
mountain,  frowning  down,  dark-browed,  and  confront 
ing  the  face  of  the  Saxon.  They  defy  the  advance  of 
civilization  into  their  ranks.  What  if  these  dark  and 
splendid  columns,  a  hundred  miles  in  depth,  should 
be  the  last  to  go  down  in  America!  What  if  this 
should  be  the  old  guard  gathered  here,  marshalled 
around  their  emperor  in  plumes  and  armor,  that  may 
die  but  not  surrender !  Ascend  this  mountain,  stand 
against  the  snow  above  the  upper  belt  of  pines,  and 
take  a  glance  below.  Toward  the  sea  nothing  but 
the  black  and  unbroken  forest.  Mountains,  it  is  true, 
dip  and  divide  and  break  the  monotony  as  the  waves 
break  up  the  sea ;  yet  it  is  still  the  sea,  still  the  un 
broken  forest,  black  and  magnificent.  To  the  south 
the  landscape  sinks  and  declines  gradually,  but  still 


76  USTWBITTEtf  HISTORY. 

maintains  its  column  of  dark-plumed  grenadiers,  till 
the  Sacramento  Valley  is  reached,  nearly  a  hundred 
miles  away.  Silver  rivers  run  here,  the  sweetest  in 
the  world.  They  wind  and  wind  among  the  rocks 
and  mossy  roots,  with  California  lilies,  and  the  yew 
with  scarlet  berries  dipping  in  the  water,  and  trout 
idling  in  the  eddies  and  cool  places  by  the  basketful. 
On  the  east,  the  forest  still  keeps  up  unbroken  rank 
till  the  Pit  Kiver  valley  is  reached;  and  even  there 
it  surrounds  the  valley,  and  locks  it  up  tight  in  its 
black  embrace. 


Camp  Life  in  the  Wood. 

THE  wood  seemed  very,  very  beautiful.  The  air 
was  so  rich,  so  soft  and  pure  in  the  Indian  Summer, 
that  it  almost  seemed  that  you  could  feed  upon  it. 
The  antlered  deer,  fat  and  tame  almost  as  if  fed  in 
parks,  stalked  by,  and  game  of  all  kinds  filled  the 
woods  in  herds.  We  hunted,  rode,  fished  and  rested 
beside  the  rivers.  "What  a  fragrance  from  the  long  and 
bent  fir  boughs;  what  a  healthy  breath  of  pine  !  All 
the  long  sweet  moonlight  nights  the  magnificent 
forest,  warm  and  mellow-like  from  sunshine  gone 
away,  gave  out  odors  like  burnt  offerings  from  censers 
swinging  in  some  mighty  cathedral. 


Mount  Hood. 

HOOD  is  rugged,  kingly,  majestic,  immortal !  But 
he  is  only  the  head  and  front  of  a  well-raised  family. 
He  is  not  alone  in  his  splendor.  Your  admiration 
is  divided  and  weakened.  Beyond  the  Columbia,  St. 
Helen's  flashes  in  the  sun  in  summer  or  is  folded  in 
clouds  from  the  sea  in  winter.  On  either  hand  Jef 
ferson  and  Washington  divide  the  attention;  then 
farther  away,  fair  as  a  stud  of  fallen  stars,  the  white 
Three  Sisters  are  grouped  together  about  the  fountain 


UNWRITTEN  HISTORY.  77 

springs  of  the  Willamette  river;  all  in  a  line — all  in 
one  range  of  mountains ;  as  it  were,  mighty  milestones 
along  the  way  of  clouds ! — marble  pillars  pointing  the 
road  to  God ! 


An  Indian  Likeness. 

FOR  want  of  a  truer  comparison  let  us  liken  him  to 
a  jealous  woman — a  whole-souled,  uncultured  woman, 
strong  in  her  passions  and  her  love.  A  sort  of  Paris 
ian  woman,  now  made  desperate  by  a  long  siege  and 
an  endless  war. 


Shasta  and  Hood. 

MOUNT  SHASTA  has  all  the  sublimity,  all  the 
strength,  majesty  and  magnificence  of  Hood ;  yet  is 
so  alone,  unsupported  and  solitary,  that  you  go  down 
before  him  utterly  with  an  undivided  adojation — a 
sympathy  for  his  loneliness  and  a  devotion  for  his 
valor — an  admiration  that  shall  pass  unchallenged. 


First  Glimpse  of  Shasta. 

MOUNT  SHASTA  was  before  me.  For  the  first  time 
I  now  looked  upon  the  mountain  in  whose  shadows  so 
many  tragedies  were  to  be  enacted ;  the  most  comely 
and  perfect  snow-peak  in  America.  Nearly  a  hundred 
miles  away,  it  seemed  in  the  pure,  clear  atmosphere 
of  the  mountains  to  be  almost  at  hand.  Above  the 
woods,  above  the  clouds,  almost  above  the  snow,  it 
looked  like  the  first  approach  of  land  to  another 
world.  Away  across  a  gray  sea  of  clouds  that  arose 
from  the  Klamat  and  Shasta  rivers,  the  mountain 
stood,  a  solitary  island;  white  and  flashing  like  a 
pyramid  of  silver !  Solemn,  majestic  and  sublime ! 
Lonely  and  cold  and  white.  A  cloud  or  two  about  his 


78  UNWKITTEK  HISTOEY. 

brow,  sometimes  resting  there,  then  wreathed  and 
coiled  about,  then  blown  like  banners  streaming  in 
the  wind. 


The  Freemasonry  of  Mountain  Scenery. 

NEVEK,  until  on  some  day  of  storms  in  the  lower 
world  you  have  ascended  one  mountain,  looked  out 
above  the  clouds,  and  seen  the  white  snowy  pyramids 
piercing  here  and  there  the  rolling  nebulous  sea,  can 
you  hope  to  learn  the  freemasonry  of  mountain  scenery 
in  its  grandest,  highest  and  most  supreme  degree. 
Lightning  and  storms  and  thunder  underneath  you ; 
calm  and  peace  and  perfect  beauty  about  you !  Typical 
and  suggestive. 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Sierras. 

THIS  canon  was  as  black  as  Erebus  down  there — 
a  sea  of  sombre  firs  ;  and  down,  down  as  if  the  earth 
were  cracked  and  cleft  almost  in  two.  Here  and  there 
lay  little  nests  of  clouds  below  us,  tangled  in  the  tree- 
tops,  no  wind  to  drive  them,  nothing  to  fret  and  disturb. 
They  lay  above  the  dusks  of  the  forest  as  if  asleep. 
Over  across  the  canon  stood  another  mountain,  not 
so  fierce  as  this,  but  black  with  forest,  and  cut  and 
broken  into  many  gorges— scars  of  earthquake  shocks, 
and  sabre-cuts  of  time.  Gorge  on  gorge,  canon  inter 
secting  canon,  pitching  down  toward  the  rapid  Kla-. 
mat — a  black  and  boundless  forest  till  it  touches  the 
very  tide  of  the  sea,  a  hundred  miles  to  the  west. 


From  Mount  Shasta  to  the  Stars. 

THE  largest  and  brightest  stars,  it  seems  to  me, 
hang  about  and  above  Mount  Shasta  in  those  cold, 


UNWRITTEN  HISTORY.  79 

bright  winter  nights  of  the  north.  They  seem  as 
large  as  California  lilies;  they  flash  and  flare,  and 
sparkle  and  dart  their  little  spangles  ;  they  lessen  and 
enlarge,  and  seem  to  make  signs,  and  talk  and  -under 
stand  each  other,  in  their  beautiful  blue  home,  that 
seems  in  the  winter  time  so  near  the  summit  of  the 
mountain.  The  Indians  say  that  it  is  quite  possible 
to  step  from  this  mountain  to  the  stars.  They  say 
that  their  fathers  have  done  so  often.  They  lay  so 
many  great  achievements  to  their  fathers.  In  this 
they  are  very  like  the  white  man.  But  may  be,  after 
all,  some  of  their  fathers  have  gone  from  this  moun 
tain-top  to  the  stars.  Who  knows  ? 


Be  Your  Own  Disciple. 

I  DARE  say  any  man  can  date  his  manhood  from  some 
event,  from  some  little  circumstance  that  seemed  to 
invest  him  with  a  sort  of  majesty,  and  dignify  him, 
in  his  own  estimation,  at  least,  with  manhood.  A 
man  must  first  be  his  own  disciple.  If  he  does  not 
first  believe  himself  a  man,  he  may  be  very  sure  the 
world,  not  one  man  or  woman  of  the  world,  will 
believe  it. 


The  Winter  Storm  Broken. 

THE  thunder  boomed  away  to  the  west  one  night 
as  if  it  had  been  the  trump  of  resurrection ;  a  rain  set 
in,  and  the  next  morning  Humbug  Creek,  as  if  it  had 
heard  a  Gabriel  blow,  had  risen  and  was  rushing 
toward  the  Klamat  and  calling  to  the  sea.  Some 
birds  were  out,  squirrels  had  left  the  rocks  and  were 
running  up  and  down  the  pines,  and  places  where  the 
snow  had  melted  off,  and  left  brown  burrs  and  quills 
and  little  shells.  The  backbone  of  the  winter  storm 
was  broken. 


80  UKWEITTE^  HISTORY. 


The  Real  Hero. 

THE  great  hero  is  born  of  the  bitter  struggle.  Who 
cannot  go  down  to  battle  with  banners,  with  tramps 
and  the  tramp  of  horses  ?  AVho  cannot  fight  for  a 
day  in  a  line  of  a  thousand  strong  with  the  eyes  of 
the  world  upon  him  ?  But  the  man  who  fights  a 
moral  battle,  coolly,  quietly,  patiently  and  alone,  with 
no  one  to  applaud  or  approve,  as  the  strife  goes  on 
through  all  the  weary  year,  and  after  all  to  have  no 
reward  but  that  of  his  own  conscience,  the  calm 
delight  of  a  duty  well  performed,  is  God's  own  hero. 
He  is  knighted  and  ennobled  there,  when  the  fight  is 
won,  and  he  wears  thenceforth  the  spurs  of  gold,  and 
an  armor  of  invulnerable  steel. 


Snow  in  the  Sierras. 

S:N"OW  !  Snow !  Snow !  The  stream  that  had  lain 
all  day  in  state,  in  its  shroud  of  frost  and  fairy-work, 
was  buried  now,  and,  beside  the  grave,  the  alder  and 
yew  along  the  bank  bent  their  heads  and  drooped 
their  limbs  in  sad  and  beautiful  regret;  a  patient, 
silent  sorrow !  Over  across  from  the  cabin  the  moun 
tain  side  shot  up  at  an  angle  almost  frightful  to  look 
upon,  till  it  lost  its  pine-covered  summit  in  the  clouds, 
and  lay  now  a  slanting  sheet  of  snow.  The  trees  had 
surrendered  to  the  snow.  They  no  longer  shook  their 
sable  plumes,  or  tossed  their  heads  at  all.  Their 
limbs  reached  out  no  more  triumphant  in  the  storm, 
but  drooped  and  hung  in  silence  at  their  sides — quiet, 
patient,  orderly  as  soldiers  in  a  line,  with  grounded 
arms.  Back  of  us  the  same  scene  was  lifted  to  the 
clouds.  Snow !  Snow !  Snow !  nothing  but  snow  ! 
To  right  and  to  left,  up  and  down  the  buried  stream, 
were  cabins  covered  with  snow,  white  and  cold  as 
tombs  and  stones  of  marble  in  a  churchyard. 


UNWRITTEN  HISTORY.  81 

And  still  the  snow  came  down  steadily  and  white, 
in  flakes  like  feathers.  It  did  not  blow  or  bluster 
about  as  if  it  wanted  to  assert  itself.  It  seemed  as  if 
it  already  had  absolute  control ;  rather  like  a  king 
who  knows  that  all  must  and  will  bow  down  before 
him.  Steady  and  still,  strong  and  stealthy,  it  came 
upon  us  and  possessed  the  earth.  Not  even  a  bird  was 
heard  to  chirp,  or  a  squirrel  to  chatter  or  protest. 
High  overhead,  in  the  clouds  as  it  seemed,  or  rather 
back  of  us,  a  little  on  the  steep  and  stupendous  moun 
tain,  it  is  true  a  coyote  lifted  his  nose  to  the  snow, 
and  called  out  dolefully ;  but  that,  maybe,  was  a  call 
to- his  mate  across  the  canon,  in  the  clouds  on  the  hill 
top  opposite.  That  was  all  that  could  be  heard. 


The  Bald-headed  Man. 

You  can  nearly  always  detect  a  bald-headed  man, 
even  while  his  hat  is  on  his  head,  by  the  display  and 
luxuriance  of  the  hair  peeping  out  from  under  his 
hat.  With  the  bald-headed  man  every  hair  is  brought 
into  requisition,  every  hair  is  brushed  and  bristled  up 
into  a  sort  of  barricade  against  the  eyes  of  the  curious. 
The  few  hairs  seemed  to  be  marshalled  up  for  a  fierce 
bayonet  charge  against  any  one  who  dares  suspect 
that  the  head,  which  they  keep  sentry  round,  is  bald. 
That  man  is  bald  and  he  feels  it.  Only  bald-headed 
men  make  this  display  of  what  hair  they  have  left. 


Spring  Disrobing  Winter. 

THE  sun  came  up  at  last  and  he  let  go  his  hold 
upon  the  stream,  took  off  his  stamp  from  pick,  and  pan, 
and  torn,  and  sluice,  and  cradle,  and  crept  in  silence 
into  the  shade  of  trees  and  up  the  mountain  side  against 
the  snow.  And  now  Spring  came  back  with  a  double 


82  UNWRITTEN  HISTORY. 

force  and  strength.  She  planted  California  lilies, 
fair  and  bright  as  stars,  tall  as  little  flag-staffs,  along 
the  mountain  side,  and  up  against  the  Winter's  bar 
ricade  of  snow,  and  proclaimed  possession  absolute 
through  her  messengers,  the  birds,  and  we  were  very 
glad.  Paquita  gathered  blossoms  in  the  sun,  threw 
her  long  hair  back,  and  bounded  like  a  fawn  along 
the  hills.  Klamat  took  his  club  and  knife,  drew  his 
robe  only  the  closer  about  him  in  the  sun,  and  went 
out  gloomy  and  sombre  in  the  mountains.  Some 
times  he  would  be  gone  all  night. 

At  last  the  baffled  Winter  abandoned  even  the  wall 
that  lay  between  us  and  the  outer  world,  and  drew  off 
all  his  forces  to  Mount  Shasta.  He  retreated  above 
the  timber  line,  but  he  retreated  not  an  inch  beyond. 
There  he  sat  down  with  all  his  strength.  He  planted 
his  white  and  snowy  tent  upon  this  everlasting  for 
tress,  and  laughed  at  the  world  below  him.  Some 
times  he  would  send  a  foray  down,  and  even  in  mid 
summer,  to  this  day  he  plucks  an  ear  of  corn,  a  peach, 
or  an  apricot,  for  a  hundred  miles  around  his  battle 
ment,  whenever  he  may  choose. 


The  Showy  Rich  Man. 

YOUR  ostentatious,  prosperous  man,  your  showy 
rich  man  of  America,  is  so  verv,  very  poor,  that  you 
do  not  care  to  call  him  your  neighbor.  It  is  true  he 
has  horses  and  houses  and  land  and  gold,  but  these 
horses  and  houses  and  land  and  coins  are  all  in  the 
world  he  has.  When  he  dies  these  will  all  remain, 
and  the  world  will  lose  nothing  whatever.  His  death 
will  not  make  even  a  ripple  in  the  tide  of  life.  His 
family,  whom  he  has  taught  to  worship  gold,  will 
forget  him  in  their  new  estates.  In  their  hearts  they 
will  be  glad  that  he  has  gone.  They  will  barter  and 
haggle  with  the  stone-cutter  toiling  for  his  bread, 
and  for  a  starve-to-death  price,  they  will  lift  a  marble 


UNWRITTEN  HISTORY.  83 

shaft  above  his  head  with  an  iron  fence  around  it — 
typical,  cold  and  soulless  !  Poor  man,  since  he  took 
nothing  away  that  one  could  miss,  what  a  beggar  he 
must  have  been  !  The  poor  and  unhappy  never 
heard  of  him ;  the  world  has  not  lost  a  thought. 
Not  a  note  missed,  not  a  word  was  lost  in  the  grand, 
sweet  song  of  the  universe  when  he  died. 


Mouths. 

THERE  are  as  many  kinds  of  mouths  as  there  are 
crimes  in  the  catalogue  of  sins.  There  is  the  mouth 
for  hash  ! — thick-lipped,  coarse  and  expressionless. 
*  *  *  Then  there  is  the  thin-lipped,  sour-apple 
mouth,  sandwiched  in  between  a  sharp  chin  and  thin 
nose.  Look  out !  Then  there  are  mischievous  mouths, 
ruddy  and  full  of  fun,  that  you  would  like  to  be  on 
good  terms  with  if  you  had  time.  Then  there  is  the 
rich,  full  mouth,  with  dimples  dallying  and  playing 
about  it  like  ripples  in  a  shade,  half  sad,  half  glad — 
a  mouth  to  love.  Such  was  Paquita's.  A  rose,  but 
not  yet  opened  ;  only  a  bud  that  in  another  summer 
would  unfold  itself  wide  to  the  sun. 


The  Indian  Autumn. 

THE  mountain  streams  went  foaming  down  among 
the  boulders  between  the  leaning  walls  of  yew  and 
cedar  trees  toward  the  Sacramento.  The  partridge 
whistled  and  called  his  flock  together  when  the  sun 
went  down  ;  the  brown  pheasants  rustled  as  they  ran 
in  strings  through  the  long  brown  grass,  but  nothing 
else  was  heard.  The  Indians,  always  silent,  are 
unusually  so  in  Autumn.  The  majestic  march  of  the 
season  seems  to  make  them  still. 


84  UHWKITTEtf  HISTORY. 


A  Thunder-Storm  in  the  Mountains. 

LATE  one  September  day  it  grew  intensely  sultry ; 
there  was  a  haze  in  the  sky  and  a  circle  about  the  sun. 
There  was  not  a  breath.  The  perspiration  came  out 
and  stood  on  the  brow,  even  as  we  rested  in  the  shadow 
of  the  pines.  A  singular  haze ;  such  a  day,  it  is  said, 
as  precedes  earthquakes.  The  black  crickets  ceased 
to  sing ;  the  striped  lizards  slid  quick  as  ripples  across 
the  rocks,  and  birds  went  swift  as  arrows  overhead, 
but  uttered  no  cry.  There  was  not  a  sound  in  the 
air  nor  on  the  earth. 

Paquita  came  rushing  down  to  the  claim,  pale  and 
excited.  She  lifted  her  two  hands  above  her  head  as 
she  stood  on  the  bank,  and  called  to  us  to  come  up 
from  the  mine.  " Come,"  she  cried,  "there  will  be  a 
storm.  The  trees  will  blow  and  break  against  each 
other.  There  will  be  a  flood,  a  sea,  a  river  in  the 
mountains.  Come!"  She  swayed  her  body  to  and 
fro,  and  the  trees  began  to  sway  above  her  on  the 
hills,  but  not  a  breath  had  touched  the  mines. 

Then  it  grew  almost  dark ;  we  fairly  had  to  feel 
our  way  up  the  ladder.  A  big  drop  sank  in  the 
water  close  at  hand,  splashing  audibly ;  the  trees 
surged  above  us  and  began  to  snap  like  reeds.  There 
was  a  roar  like  the  sea — loud,  louder.  Nearer  now 
the  trees  began  to  bend  and  turn  and  lick  their  limbs 
and  trunks,  interweave  and  smite  and  crush,  until 
their  tops  were  like  one  great  black  and  boiling  sea. 

Fast,  faster  the  rain  in  great  warm  drops  began  to 
strike  us  in  the  face,  as  we  miners  hastened  up 
the  hill  to  the  shelter  of  the  cabin.  At  the  door  we 
turned  to  look.  The  darkness  of  death  was  upon  us ; 
we  could  hear  the  groans  and  the  battling  of  the  trees, 
the  howling  of  the  tempest,  but  all  was  darkness, 
blackness,  desolation.  Lightning  cleft  the  heavens. 
A  sheet  of  flame — as  if  the  hand  of  God  had  thrust 
out  through  the  dark,  and  smote  the  mountain  side 
with  a  sword  of  fire. 


UKWKITTEH  HISTORY.  85 

And  then  the  thunder  shook  the  earth  till  it  trem 
bled,  as  if  Shasta  had  been  shaken  loose  and  broken 
from  its  foundation.  No  one  spoke ;  the  lightning 
lit  the  cabin  like  a  bonfire.  Klamat  stood  there  in 
the  cabin  by  his  club  and  gun. 


Sunrise  on  Mount  Shasta. 

was  descending  and  settling  around  the 
head  of  Shasta  in  a  splendor  and  a  glory  that  words 
will  never  touch.  There  are  some  things  that  are 
so  far  beyond  the  reach  of  words  that  it  seems  like 
desecration  to  attempt  description.  It  was  not  the 
red  of  Pekin,  not  the  purple  of  Tyre,  or  the  yellow 
of  the  Barbary  coast ;  but  merge  all  these,  mixed  and 
made  mellow  in  a  far  and  tender  light — snow  and  sun, 
and  sun  and  snow,  and  stars,  and  blue  and  purple 
skies  all  blended,  all  these  in  a  splendid,  confused  and 
indescribable  glory,  suffusing  the  hoary  summit,  cen 
tering  there,  gathering  there,  resting  a  moment — 
then  radiating,  going  on  to  the  sea,  to  broad  and 
burning  plains  of  the  south,  to  the  boundless  forests 
of  fir  in  the  north,  even  to  the  mining  camps  of 
Cariboo,  and  you  have  a  sunrise  on  the  summit  of 
Shasta. 


A  Funeral  in  a  Mining  Camp. 

As  a  rule  a  funeral  in  the  mines  is  a.  mournful 
thing.  It  is  the  saddest  and  most  pitiful  spectacle  I 
have  ever  seen.  The  contrast  of  strength  and  weak 
ness  is  brought  out  here  in  such  a  way  that  you  must 
turn  aside  or  weep  when  you  behold  it.  To  see  those 
strong,  rough  men,  long-haired,  bearded  and  brown, 
rugged  and  homely-looking,  with  something  of  the 
grizzly  in  their  great,  awkward  movements,  now  take 
up  one  of  their  number,  straightened  in  the  rough 


86  UNWRITTEN   HISTORY. 

pine  box,  in  his  miner's  dress,  and  carry  him  up,  up 
on  the  hill  in  silence — it  is  sad  beyond  expression. 

He  has  come  a  long  way,  he  has  journeyed  by  land 
or  sea  for  a  year,  he  has  toiled  and  endured,  and  denied 
himself  all  things  for  some  dear  object  at  home,  and 
now  after  all  he  must  lie  down  in  the  forests  of  the 
Sierras,  and  turn  on  his  side  and  die.  No  one  to  kiss 
him,  no  one  to  bless  him,  and  say  "  good-bye, v  only 
as  a  woman  can,  and  close  the  weary  eyes,  and  fold 
the  hands  in  their  final  rest ;  and  then  at  the  grave, 
how  awkward — how  silent !  How  they  would  like  to 
look  at  each  other  and  say  something,  yet  how  they 
hold  down  their  heads,  or  look  away  to  the  horizon, 
lest  they  should  meet  each  other's"  eyes ;  lest  some 
strong  man  should  see  the  tears  that  went  silently 
down  from  the  eyes  of  another  over  his  beard  and  on 
to  the  leaves. 


The  Chain  of  Fortune. 

No  man  leaps  full  grown  into  the  world.  No  great 
plan  bursts  in  full  and  complete  magnificence  and  at 
once  upon  the  mind.  Nor  does  any  one  suddenly 
become  this  thing  or  that.  A  combination  of  cir 
cumstances,  a  long  chain  of  reverses  that  refuses  to 
be  broken,  carries  men  far  down  in  the  scale  of  life, 
without  any  fault  whatever  of  theirs.  A  similar  but 
less  frequent  chain  of  good  fortune  lifts  others  up 
into  the  full  light  of  the  sun,  The  world,  watching 
the  gladiators  from  its  high  seat  in  the  circus,  will 
never  reverse  its  thumb  against  the  successful  man. 


Paquita. 

SHE  was  surely  lovelier  now  than  ever  before ;  tall, 
and  lithe,  and  graceful  as  a  mountain  lily  swayed  by 
the  breath  of  morning.  On  her  face,  through  the  tint 


UKWRITTEK  HISTORY.  87 

of  brown,  lay  the  blush  and  flush  of  maidenhood,  the 
indescribable  sacred  something  that  makes  a  maiden 
holy  to  every  man  of  a  manly  and  chivalrous  nature ; 
that  makes  a  man  utterly  unselfish,  and  perfectly  con 
tent  to  love  and  be  silent,  to  worship  at  a  distance,  as 
turning  to  the  holy  shrine  of  Mecca,  to  be  still  and 
bide  his  time ;  caring  not  to  possess  in  the  low,  coarse 
way  that  characterizes  your  common  love  of  to-day, 
but  choosing  rather  to  go  to  battle  for  her, — bearing 
her  in  his  heart  through  many  lands,  through  storms 
and  death,  with  only  a  word  of  hope,  a  smile,  a  wave 
of  the  hand  from  a  wall,  a  kiss  blown  far,  as  he  mounts 
his  steed  below  and  plunges  into  the  night.  That  is 
a  love  to  live  for.  I  say  the  knights  of  Spain,  bloody 
as  they  were,  were  a  noble  and  a  splendid  type  of  men 
in  their  way. 


The  Night. 

As  the  sun  went  down,  broad,  blood-red  banners 
ran  up  to  the  top  of  Shasta,  and  streamed  away  to  the 
south  in  hues  of  gold ;  streamed  and  streamed  as  if  to 
embrace  the  universe  in  one  great  union  beneath  one 
banner.  Then  the  night  came  down  as  suddenly  on 
the  world  as  the  swoop  of  an  eagle. 


The  Indian  Account  of  the  Creation. 

THE  Indians  say  the  Great  Spirit  made  this  moun 
tain  first  of  all.  Can  you  not  see  how  it  is  ?  they 
say.  He  first  pushed  down  snow  and  ice  from  the 
skies,  through  a  hole  which  he  made  in  the  blue 
heavens,  by  turning  a  stone  round  and  round,  till  he 
made  this  great  mountain ;  then  he  stepped  out  of  the 
clouds  upon  the  mountain  top,  and  descended  and 
planted  the  trees  all  around  by  putting  his  finger  on 
the  ground.  Simple  and  sublime  ! 


oo  TJ  Is"  WRITTEN  HISTORY. 


The  sun  melted  the  snow,  and  the  water  ran  down 
and  nurtured  the  trees  and  made  the  rivers.  After 
that  he  made  the  fish  for  the  rivers,  out  of  the  small 
end  of  his  staff.  He  made  the  birds  by  blowing  some 
leaves  which  he  took  up  from  the  ground  among  the 
trees.  After  that  he  made  the  beasts  out  of  the  re 
mainder  of  his  stick,  but  made  the  grizzly  bear  out  of 
the  big  end,  and  made  him  master  over  all  the  others. 
He  made  the  grizzly  so  strong  that  he  feared  him 
himself,  and  would  have  to  go  up  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain  out  of  sight  of  the  forest  to  sleep  at  night, 
lest  the  grizzly,  who,  as  will  be  seen,  was  much  more 
strong  and  cunning  then  than  now,  should  assail  him 
in  his  sleep.  Afterward  the  Great  Spirit,  wishing  to 
remain  on  earth,  and  make  the  sea  and  some  more 
land,  he  converted  Mount  Shasta  by  a  great  deal  of 
labor  into  a  wigwam,  and  built  a  fire  in  the  centre  of 
it,  and  made  it  a  pleasant  home.  After  that  his  family 
came  down  and  they  all  have  lived  in  the  mountain 
ever  since. 


The' Association  of  the  Dead. 

DEAD  men  are  even  more  gregarious  than  the  liv 
ing.  No  one  lies  down  to  rest  long  at  a  time  alone, 
even  in  the  wildest  parts  of  the  Pacific.  The  dead 
will  come,  if  his  place  of  rest  be  not  hidden  utterly, 
sooner  or  later,  and  even  in  the  wildest  places  will 
find  him  out,  and  one  by  one  lie  down  around  him. 


Sunset  on  Mt.  Shasta. 

THE  kingly  sun,  as  if  it  were  the  last  sweet  office  on 
earth  that  day,  reached  out  a  shining  hand  to  Shasta, 
laid  it  on  his  head  till  it  became  a  halo  of  gold  and 
glory,  withdrew  it  then,  and  let  the  shadowy  curtains 
of  night  come  down,  and  it  was  dark  almost  in  a 
moment. 


UNWRITTEN  HISTORY.  89 


Climbing  the  Mountain. 

IT  was  perfectly  splendid.  We  were  playing  spider 
and  fly  in  the  heavens.  Down  at  the  mountain's  base 
and  pressed  to  the  foamy  rim  of  the  river,  stood  the 
madrono  and  manzanita,  light,  but  trim-limbed,  like 
sycamore  ;  and  np  a  little  way  were  oak,  and  ash,  and 
poplar  trees,  yellow  as  the  autumn  frosts  could  paint 
them ;  and  as  the  eye  ascended  the  steep  and  stupend 
ous  mountain  that  stood  over  across  the  river  against 
us,  yet  so  close  at  hand,  the  fir  and  tamarack  grew 
dense  and  dark,  with  only  now  and  then  a  clump  of 
yellow  trees  like  islands  set  in  a  sea  of  green. 

Here  and  there  a  scarlet  maple  blazed  like  the 
burning  bush,  and,  to  a  mind  careless  of  appropriate 
figures,  might  have  suggested  Jacob's  kine,  or  coat  of 
many  colors.  How  we  flew  and  dashed  around  the 
rocky  spurs!  Some  chipmunks  dusted  down  the  road 
and  across  the  track,  and  now  and  then  perched  on  a 
limb  in  easy  pistol-shot;  a  splendid  gray  squirrel 
looked  at  us  under  his  bushy  tail,  and  barked  and 
chattered  undisturbed;  but  we  saw  no  other  game. 
In  a  country  famous  for  its  bears,  we  saw  not  so 
much  as  a  track.  Down  under  us  on  the  river  bank 
the  smoke  of  a  solitary  wigwam  curled  lazily  up 
through  the  trees,  and  the  Indian,  who  stood  on  the 
rocks  spearing  the  Autumn  run  of  salmon,  looked  no 
taller  than  a  span. 


The  Death  of  Paquita. 

I  had  strength  to  rise,  I  went  up  the  warm 
grassy  river  bank,  peering  through  the  tules  in  an  al 
most  hopeless  search  for  my  companions.  Nothing 
was  to  be  seen.  The  troops  on  the  other  bank  had 
gone  away,  not  knowing,  perhaps  not  caring  what 
they  had  done.  The  deep,  blue  river  gave  no  sign  of 
the  tragedy  now.  All  was  as  still  as  the  tomb.  I  stole 


90  UNWRITTEN  HISTORY. 

close  and  slowly  along  the  bank.  I  felt  a  desolation 
that  was  new  and  dreadful  in  its  awful  solemnity. 
The  bluff  of  the  river  hung  in  basaltic  columns,  a 
thousand  feet  above  my  head ;  only  a  narrow  little 
strip  of  grass,  and  tules,  and  reeds,  and  willows,  nod 
ding,  dipping,  dripping,  in  the  swift,  strong  river. 
Not  a  bird  flew  over,  not  a  cricket  called  from  out  the 
long  grass.  "Ah!  what  an  ending  is  this!"  I  said, 
and  sat  down  in  despair.  My  eyes  were  riveted  on 
the  river.  Up  and  down  on  the  other  side,  everywhere 
I  scanned  with  Indian  eyes  for  even  a  sign  of  life,  for 
friend  or  foe.  Nothing  but  the  bubble  and  gurgle  of 
the  waters,  the  nodding,  dipping,  dripping  of  the 
reeds,  the  willows  and  the  tules. 

If  earth  has  any  place  more  solemn,  more  solitary, 
more  awful  than  the  banks  of  a  strong,  deep  river, 
rushing,  at  night-fall,  through  a  mountain  forest, 
where  even  the  birds  have  forgotten  to  sing,  or  the 
katydid  to  call  from  the  grass,  I  know  not  where  it  is. 

I  stole  further  up  the  bank ;  and  there,  almost  at 
my  feet,  a  little  face  was  lifted  as  if  rising  from  the 
water  into  mine. 

Blood  was  flowing  from  her  mouth,  and  she  could 
not  speak.  Her  naked  arms  were  reached  out,  and 
holding  on  to  the  grassy  bank,  but  she  could  not  draw 
her  body  from  the  water.  I  put  my  arms  about  her, 
and,  with  a  sudden  and  singular  strength,  lifted  her 
up  and  back  to  some  warm,  dry  rocks,  and  there  sat 
down  with  the  dying  girl  in  my  arms. 

She  was  bleeding  from  many  wounds.  Her  whole 
body  seemed  to  be  covered  with  blood  as  I  drew  her 
from  the  water.  Blood  spreads  with  water  over  a 
warm  body  in  streams  and  seams,  and  at  such  a  time 
a  body  seems  to  be  covered  with  a  sheet  of  crimson. 

Paquita  ! 

I  entreated  her  to  speak.  I  called  to  her,  but  she 
could  not  answer.  The  desolation  and  solitude  was 
now  only  the  more  dreadful.  My  voice  came  back 
in  strange  echoes  from  the  basalt  bluffs,  and  that  was 
all  the  answer  I  ever  had. 


UNWRITTEX  HISTORY.  91 

The  Indian  girl  lay  dead  in  my  arms.  Blood  on 
my  hands,  blood  on  my  clothes,  and  blood  on  the 
grass  and  stones. 

The  lonely  July  night  was  soft  and  sultry.  The 
great  white  moon  rose  up  and  rolled  along  the  heav 
ens,  and  sifted  through  the  boughs  that  lifted  above 
and  reached  from  the  hanging  cliff,  and  fell  in  lines 
and  spangles  across  the  face  and  form  of  my  dead, 

Paquita ! 

Once  so  alone  in  the  awful  presence  of  death,  I  be 
came  terrified.  My  heart  and  soul  were  strung  to  such 
a  tension,  it  became  intolerable.  I  would  have  started 
up  and  fled.  But  where  could  I  have  fled,  even  had  I 
had  the  strength  to  fly  ?  I  bent  my  head,  and  tried 
to  hide  my  face. 

Paquita  dead ! 

Our  lives  had  first  run  together  in  currents  of  blood 
on  the  snow,  in  persecution,  ruin  and  destruction ; 
in  the  shadows  and  in  the  desolation  of  death ;  and  so 
now  they  separated  forever. 

Paquita  dead ! 

We  had  starved  together ;  stood  by  the  sounding 
cataracts,  threaded  the  forests,  roamed  by  the  river 
banks  together;  grown  from  childhood,  as  it  were, 
together.  But  now  she  had  gone  away,  crossed  the 
dark  and  mystic  river  alone,  and  left  me  to  make 
the  rest  of  the  journey  with  strangers  and  without  a 
friend. 

Paquita ! 

Why,  we  had  watched  the  great  sunland,  like  some 
mighty  navigator  sailing  the  blue  seas  of  heaven,  on 
the  flashing  summit  of  Shasta ;  had  seen  him  come 
with  lifted  sword  and  shield,  and  take  possession  of 
the  continent  of  darkness ;  had  watched  him  in  the 
twilight  marshal  his  forces  there  for  the  last  great 
struggle  with  the  shadows,  creeping  like  evil  spirits 
through  the  woods,  and,  like  the  red  man,  make  a  last 
grand  battle  there  for  his  old  dominions.  We  had 
seen  him  fall  and  die  at  last  with  all  the  snow-peak 
crimsoned  in  his  blood. 


92  UHWKITTEK  HISTOKY. 

No  more  now.  Paquita,  the  child  of  nature,  the 
sunbeam  of  the  forest,  the  star  that  had  seen  so  little 
of  light,  lay  wrapped  in  darkness.  Paquita  lay  cold 
and  lifeless  in  my  arms. 

That  night  my  life  widened  and  widened  away  till 
it  touched  and  took  in  the  shores  of  death.  .  .  . 

Tenderly  at  last  I  laid  her  down,  and  moved  about. 
Glad  of  something  to  do,  I  gathered  fallen  branches, 
decayed  wood,  and  dry,  dead  reeds,  and  built  a  ready 
pyre. 

I  struck  flints  together,  made  a  fire,  and  when  the 
surf  of  light  again  broke  in  across  the  eastern  wall, 
I  lifted  her  up,  laid  her  tenderly  on  the  pyre,  com 
posed  her  face  and  laid  her  little  hands  across  her 
breast.  I  lighted  the  grass  and  tules.  So  the  fire 
took  hold,  and  leaped,  and  laughed,  and  crackled,  and 
reached,  as  if  to  salute  the  solemn  boughs,  that  bent 
and  waved  from  the  cliffs  above,  as  bending  and  look 
ing  into  a  grave.  I  gathered  white  stones  and  laid  a 
circle  around  the  embers.  How  rank  and  tall  the 
grass  is  growing  above  her  ashes  now !  The  stones 
have  settled  and  settled,  till  almost  sunk  in  the  earth, 
but  this  girl  is  not  forgotten.  This  is  the  monument 
I  raise  above  her  ashes  and  her  faithful  life. 


THE  SHIP  IN  THE  DESERT. 


117"  KITTEN  in  Rome  and  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Como  in  1874.  Pub- 
*  *  lished  by  Chapman  &  Hall,  London,  1874,  and  Roberts  Bros., 
Boston,  1875.  The  design  of  the  poem— the  book  contains  one  only— is  to 
portray  the  vastness,  the  almost  boundlessness  of  "  the  great  American 
Desert,"  — the  regions  between  the  Mississippi  River  and  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  "An  infinite  sense  of  roomy  The  poet  has  expressed  the 
belief  that  this  will  outlive  everything  else  he  has  written,  simply  from  its 
grand  subject. 


0  weary  days  of  weary  blue, 
Without  one  changing  breath,  without 
One  single  cloud-ship  sailing  through 
The  Hue  seas  lending  round  about 
In,  one  unbroken  blotless  hue. 

The  sunlights  of  a  sunlit  land, 
A  land  of  fruit,  of  flowers,  and 
A  land  of  love  and  calm  delight ; 
A  land  where  night  is  not  like  night, 
And  noon  is  but  a  name  for  rest, 
And  love  for  love  is  reckoned  best. 


The  Old  Sea-King. 

GKAND  old  Neptune  in  the  prow, 
Gray-hair'd  and  white  with  touch  of  time, 
Yet  strong  as  in  his  middle  prime ; 
A  grizzed  king,  I  see  him  now, 
"With  beard  as  blown  by  wind  of  seas, 
And  wild  and  white  as  white  sea-storm, 
Stand  up,  turn  suddenly,  look  back 
Along  the  low  boat's  wrinkled  track, 
Then  fold  his  mantle  round  a  form 
Broad-built  as  any  Hercules, 
And  so  sit  silently. 

Beside 

The  grim  old  sea-king  sits  his  bride, 
A  sunland  blossom,  rudely  torn 
From  tropic  forests,  to  be  worn 
Above  as  stern  a  breast  as  e'er 
Stood  king  at  sea  or  anywhere. 


On  the  River. 

HER  hair  pourM  down  like  darkling  wine, 
The  black  men  lean'd,  a  sullen  line, 
The  bent  oars  kept  a  steady  song, 
And  all  the  beams  of  bright  sunshine 
That  touch'd  the  waters  wild  and  strong, 
Fell  drifting  down  and  out  of  sight 
Like  fallen  leaves,  and  it  was  night. 


The  Sea-King's  Bride. 

A  GKEAT,  sad  beauty,  in  whose  eyes 
Lay  all  the  loves  of  Paradise. 


THE   SHIP  IN  THE   DESERT. 

0  had  you  loved  her  sitting  there, 
Half  hidden  in  her  loosen'd  hair : 
"Why,  you  had  loved  her  for  her  eyes, 
Their  large  and  melancholy  look 
Of  tenderness,  and  well  mistook 
Their  love  for  light  of  Paradise. 

Yea,  loved  her  for  her  large  dark  eyes ; 
Yea,  loved  her  for  her  brow's  soft  brown  ; 
Her  hand  as  light  as  heaven's  bars ; 
Yea,  loved  her  for  her  mouth.     Her  mouth 
Was  roses  gather'd  from  the  south, 
The  warm  south  side  of  Paradise, 
And  breathed  upon  and  handed  down, 
By  angels  on  a  stair  of  stars. 

Her  mouth  !  'twas  Egypt's  mouth  of  old, 
Push'd  out  and  pouting  full  and  bold 
With  simple  beauty  where  she  sat. 
Why,  you  had  said,  on  seeing  her, 
This  creature  came  from  out  the  dim 
Far  centuries,  beyond  the  rim 
Of  Time's  remotest  reach  or  stir. 
And  he  who  wrought  Semiramis 
And  shaped  the  Sibyls,  seeing  this, 
Had  bow'd  and  made  a  shrine  thereat, 
And  all  his  life  had  worshipp'd  her, 
Devout  as  north-Nile  worshipper. 


A  Great  Soul. 

A  MAN  whose  soul  was  mightier  far 

Than  his  great  self,  and  surged  and  fell 

About  himself  as  heaving  seas, 

Lift  up  and  lash,  and  boom,  and  swell 

Above  some  solitary  bar 

That  bursts  through  blown  Samoa's  sea, 

And  wreck  and  toss  eternally. 


THE  SHIP  IK  THE  DESERT.  97 


Spring. 

THE  black-eyed  bushy  squirrels  ran 

Like  shadows  shattered  through  the  boughs ; 

The  gallant  robin  chirp'd  his  vows, 

The  far-off  pheasant  thrumm'd  his  fan, 

A  thousand  blackbirds  were  a-wing 

In  walnut-top,  and  it  was  Spring. 


Journeying. 

THE  clouds  of  dust,  their  cloud  by  day ; 
Their  pillar  of  unfailing  fire 
The  far  north  star.     And  high*  and  higher 
They  climb'd  so  high  it  seem'd  eftsoon 
That  they  must  face  the  falling  moon, 
That  like  some  flame-lit  ruin  lay 
Thrown  down  before  their  weary  way. 


"Take  Men  as  You  Find  Them." 

AND  as  to  that,  I  reckon  it 
But  right,  but  Christian-like  and  just, 
And  closer  after  Christ's  own  plan, 
To  take  men  as  you  find  your  man, 
To  take  a  soul  from  God  on  trust, 
A  fit  man,  or  yourself  unfit : 

To  take  man  free  from  the  control 
Of  man's  opinion  ;  take  a  soul 
In  its  own  troubled  world,  all  fair 
As  you  behold  it  then  and  there, 
Set  naked  in  your  sight,  alone, 
Unnamed,  unheralded,  unknown : 
5 


98  THE   SHIP  IK  THE   DESERT. 

Yea,  take  him  bravely  from  the  hand 

That  reach'd  him  forth  from  nothingness, 

That  took  his  tired  soul  to  keep 

All  night,  then  reach'd  him  out  from  sleep 

And  sat  him  equal  in  the  land ; 

Sent  out  from  where  the  angels  are, 

A  soul  new-born,  without  one  whit 

Of  bought  or  borrow'd  character. 


The  Omaha  of  the  Future. 

BY  pleasant  high-built  Omaha 
I  stand.    The  waves  beneath  me  run 
All  stain'd  and  yellow,  dark  and  dun, 
And  deep  as  death's  sweet  mystery, — 
A  thousand  Tibers  roll'd  in  one. 
I  count  on  other  years.    I  draw 
The  curtain  from  the  scenes  to  be. 
I  see  another  Rome.    I  see 
A  Caesar  tower  in  the  land, 
And  take  her  in  his  iron  hand. 
I  see  a  throne,  a  king,  a  crown, 
A  high-built  capital  thrown  down. 


In  the  Desert. 

THEY  saw  the  Silences 
Move  by  and  beckon  :  saw  the  forms, 
The  very  beards  of  burly  storms, 
And  heard  them  talk  like  sounding  seas, 
On  unnamed  heights,  bleak-blown  and  brown, 
And  torn  like  battlements  of  Mars ; 
They  saw  the  darknesses  jcome  down 
Like  curtains  loosen'd  from  the  dome 
Of  God's  cathedral,  built  of  stars. 


THE   SHIP  IK  THE   DESEKT.  99 

They  saw  the  snowy  mountains  roll'd 
And  heaved  along  the  nameless  lands 
Like  mighty  billows  ;  saw  the  gold 
Of  awful  sunsets ;  saw  the  blush 
Of  sudden  dawn,  and  felt  the  hush 
Of  heaven  when  the  Day  sat  down, 
And  hid  his  face  in  dusky  hands. 


The  Red  Men's  Cemetery. 

0  BEARDED,  stalwart,  westmost  men, 
So  tower-like,  so  Gothic-built! 
A  kingdom  won  without  the  guilt 
Of  studied  battle ;  that  hath  been 
Your  blood's  inheritance    .    .    . 

Your  heirs 

Know  not  your  tombs.     The  great  ploughshares 
Cleave  softly  through  the  mellow  loam 
Where  you  have  made  eternal  home 
And  set  no  sign. 

Your  epitaphs 

Are  writ  in  furrows.    Beauty  laughs, 
While  through  the  green  ways  wandering 
Beside  her  love,  slow  gathering 
White  starry-hearted  May-time  blooms 
Above  your  lowly  levelled  tombs ; 
And  then  below  the  spotted  sky 
She  stops,  she  leans,  she  wonders  why 
The  ground  is  heaved  and  broken  so, 
And  why  the  grasses  darker  grow 
And  droop  and  trail  like  wounded  wing. 


Kings  in  Captivity. 

Two  sullen  bullocks  led  the  line, 

Their  great  eyes  shining  bright  like  wine ; 


100  THE   SHIP  IN"  THE  DESEET. 

Two  sullen  captive  kings  were  they, 
That  had  in  time  held  herds  at  bay, 
And  even  now  they  crush'd  the  sod 
With  stolid  sense  of  majesty, 
And  stately  stepp'd  and  stately  trod, 
As  if  'twere  something  still  to  be 
Kings  even  in  captivity. 


To-morrow. 

0  THOU  to-morrow !    Mystery ! 
0  day  that  ever  runs  before ! 
What  has  thine  hidden  hand  in  store 
For  mine,  to-morrow,  and  for  me  ? 
O  thou  to-morrow !  what  hast  thou 
In  store  to  make  me  bear  the  now  ? 

0  day  in  which  we  shall  forget 
The  tangled  troubles  of  to-day ! 
0  day  that  laughs  at  duns,  at  debt ! 
O  day  of  promises  to  pay ! 
0  shelter  from  all  present  storm ! 
0  day  in  which  we  shall  reform ! 

0  day  of  all  days  for  reform ! 
Convenient  day  of  promises ! 
Hold  back  the  shadow  of  the  storm. 
0  bless'd  to-morrow !    Chiefest  friend, 
Let  not  thy  mystery  be  less, 
But  lead  us  blindfold  to  the  end. 


The  Sun  at  Noon-day. 

IT  molten  hung 

Like  some  great  central  burner  swung 
From  lofty  beams  with  golden  bars 
In  sacristy  set  round  with  stars. 


THE  SHIP  IX  THE  DESERT.         101 


Solemn  Silence. 

THE  solemn  silence  of  that  plain, 
Where  unmanned  tempests  ride  and  reign, 
It  awes  and  it  possesses  you, 
'Tis,  oh !  so  eloquent. 

The  blue 

And  bended  skies  seem  built  for  it, 
AVith  rounded  roof  all  fashioned  fit, 
And  frescoed  clouds,  quaint-wrought  and  true; 
While  all  else  seems  so  far,  so  vain, 
An  idle  tale  but  illy  told, 
Before  this  land  so  lone  and  old. 

Its  story  is  of  God  alone, 

For  man  has  lived  and  gone  away,  4 

And  left  but  little  heaps  of  stone, 

And  all  seems  some  long  yesterday. 


Dead. 

Lo !  all  things  moving  must  go  by. 
The  sea  lies  dead.     Behold,  this  land 
Sits  desolate  in  dust  beside 
His  snow-white,  seamless  shroud  of  sand; 
The  very  clouds  have  wept  and  died, 
And  only  God  is  in  the  sky. 


The  Land  of  the  Future. 

A  LAND  from  out  whose  depths  shall  rise 
The  new-time  prophets. 

Yea,  the  land 

From  out  whose  awful  depths  shall  come, 
All  clad  in  skins,  with  dusty  feet, 


102  THE  SHIP  IN  THE  DESEKT. 

A  man  fresh  from  his  Maker's  hand, 
A  singer  singing  oversweet, 
A  charmer  charming  very  wise ; 
And  then  all  men  shall  not  be  dumb. 

Nay,  not  be  dumb,  for  he  shall  say, 
"  Take  heed,  for  I  prepare  the  way 
For  weary  feet." 

Lo !  from  this  land 

Of  Jordan's  streams  and  sea-wash'd  sand, 
The  Christ  shall  come  when  next  the  race 
Of  man  shall  look  upon  his  face. 


Busy  Bees. 

How  sweet  the  grasses  at  my  feet ! 
The  smell  of  clover  overs  wee  t. 
I  heard  the  hum  of  bees.    The  bloom 
Of  clover-tops  and  cherry-trees 
Were  being  rifled  by  the  bees, 
And  these  were  building  in  a  tomb. 


Africa. 

BEHOLD  ! 

The  Sphinx  is  Africa.    The  bond 
Of  silence  is  upon  her. 

Old 

And  white  with  tombs  and  rent  and  shorn  ; 
With  raiment  wet  with  tears,  and  torn, 
And  trampled  on,  yet  all  untamed  ; 
All  naked  now,  yet  not  ashamed, — 
The  mistress  of  the  young  world's  prime, 
Whose  obelisks  still  laugh  at  Time, 
And  lift  to  heaven  her  fair  name, 
Sleeps  satisfied  upon  her  fame. 


THE  SHIP  IK  THE  DESEKT.  103 

Beyond  the  Sphinx,  and  still  beyond, 
Beyond  the  tawny  desert-tomb 
Of  Time  ;  beyond  tradition,  loom 
And  lift  ghost-like  from  out  the  gloom 
Her  thousand  cities,  battle-torn. 
And  gray  with  story  and  with  time. 
Her  very  ruins  are  sublime, 
Her  thrones  with  mosses  overborne 
Make  velvets  for  the  feet  of  Time. 


The  Antelope. 

THE  large-eyed  antelope  came  down 
From  off  their  windy  hills,  and  blew 
Their  whistles  as  they  wandered  through 
The  open  groves  of  watered  wood ; 
Then  came  as  light  as  if  a- wing, 
And  reached  their  noses  wet  and  brown, 
And  stamped  their  little  feet,  and  stood 
Close  up  before  them  wondering. 


The  Dead  African. 

AGAIN"  the  still  moon  rose  and  stood 
Above  the  dim,  dark  belt  of  wood, 
Above  the  buttes,  above  the  snow, 
And  bent  a  sad,  sweet  face  below. 

She  reach'd  along  the  level  plain 
Her  long,  white  fingers.    Then  again 
She  reach'd,  she  touch'd  the  snowy  sands, 
Then  reach'd  far  out  until  she  touch'd 
A  heap  that  lay  with  doubled  hands, 
Keach'd  from  its  sable  self,  and  clutch'd 
"With  death. 


104  THE  SHIP  IK  THE  DESERT. 

0  tenderly 

That  black,  that  dead  and  hollow  face 
Was  kiss'd  at  midnight.  .  .  . 

What  if  I  say 

The  long,  white  moonbeams  reaching  there, 
Caressing  idle  hands  of  clay, 
And  resting  on  the  wrinkled  hair 
And  great  lips  push'd  in  sullen  pout, 
Were  God's  own  fingers  reaching  out 
From  heaven  to  that  lonesome  place  ? 


Solitude. 

Lo  !  date  had  lost  all  reckoning, 
And  Time  had  long  forgotten  all 
In  this  lost  land,  and  no  new  thing, 
Or  old  could  anywise  befall, 
Or  morrows,  or  a  yesterday, 
For  Time  went  by  the  other  way. 
The  ages  have  not  any  course 
Across  this  untrack'd  waste. 

The  sky 

Wears  here  one  blue,  unbending  hue, 
The  heavens  one  unchanging  mood. 
The  far  still  stars  they  filter  through 
The  heavens,  falling  bright  and  bold 
Against  the  sands  as  beams  of  gold. 
The  wide,  white  moon  forgets  her  force ; 
The  very  sun  rides  round  and  high, 
As  if  to  shun  this  solitude. 


Misunderstood  Souls. 

AH  !  there  be  souls  none  understand ; 
Like  clouds,  they  cannot  touch  the  land, 
Drive  as  they  may  by  field  or  town. 


THE  SHIP  IN  THE  DESEET.  105 

Then  we  look  wise  at  this  and  frown, 
And  we  cry,  "  Fool,"  and  cry,  "  Take  hold 
Of  earth,  and  fashion  gods  of  gold." 

Unanchor'd  ships,  they  blow  and  blow, 
Sail  to  and  fro,  and  then  go  down 
In  unknown  seas  that  none  shall  know, 
Without  one  ripple  of  renown. 
Poor  drifting  dreamers  sailing  by, 
They  seem  to  only  live  to  die. 

Call  these  not  fools ;  the  test  of  worth 
Is  not  the  hold  you  have  of  earth. 
Lo  !  there  be  gentlest  souls  sea-blown 
That  know  not  any  harbor  known. 
Now  it  may  be  the  reason  is 
They  touch  on  fairer  shores  than  this. 


The  Little  Isle. 

IT  lies  a  little  isle  mid  land, 
An  island  in  a  sea  of  sand ; 
With  reedy  waters  and  the  balm 
Of  an  eternal  summer  air. 
Some  blowy  pines  toss  tall  and  fair ; 
And  there  are  grasses  long  and  strong, 
And  tropic  fruits  that  never  fail : 
The  Manzinetta  pulp,  the  palm, 
The  prickly  pear,  with  all  the  song 
Of  summer  birds. 

And  there  the  quail 
Makes  nest,  and  you  may  hear  her  call 
All  day  from  out  the  chaparral 
A  land  where  white  man  never  trod, 
And  Morgan  seems  some  demi-god. 


106  THE  SHIP  IK  THE  DESERT. 


A  Lifted  Face. 

A  FACE  that  lifted  up  ;  sweet  face 
That  was  so  like  a  life  begun, 
That  rose  for  nie  a  rising  sun 
Above  the  bended  seven  hills 
Of  dead  and  risen  old  new  Rome. 

Not  that  I  deem'd  she  loved  me.    Nay, 

I  dared  not  even  dream  of  that. 

I  only  say  I  knew  her  ;  say 

She  ever  sat  before  me,  sat 

All  still  and  voiceless  as  love  is, 

And  ever  look'd  so  fair,  divine, 

Her  hush'd,  vehement  soul  fill'd  mine, 

And  overflowed  with  Kunic  bliss, 

And  made  itself  a  part  of  this. 


To  the  Missouri. 

0  SOUNDING,  swift  Missouri,  born 
Of  Eocky  Mountains,  and  begot 
On  bed  of  snow  at  birth  of  morn, 
Of  thunder-storms  and  elements 
That  reign  where  puny  man  comes  not, 
With  fountain-head  in  fields  of  gold, 
And  wide  arms  twining  wood  and  wold, 
And  everlasting  snowy  tents, — 

1  hail  you  from  the  Orients. 

Shall  I  return  to  you  once  more  ? 

Shall  take  occasion  by  the  throat 

And  thrill  with  wild  ^Eolian  note  ? 

Shall  sit  and  sing  by  your  deep  shore  ? 

Shall  shape  a  reed  and  pipe  of  yore 

And  \vake  old  melodies  made  new, 

And  thrill  thine  leaf-land  through  and  through  ? 


THE  SHIP  IK  THE  DESERT.         107 


Three  Babes. 

THREE  mute  brown  babes  of  hers ;  and  they- 

0,  they  were  beautiful  as  sleep, 

Or  death  below  the  troubled  deep. 

And  on  the  parting  lips  of  these 

Eed  corals  of  the  silent  seas, 

Sweet  birds,  the  everlasting  seal 

Of  silence  that  the  God  has  set 

On  this  dead  island,  sits  for  aye.* 

I  would  forget,  yet  not  forget 
Their  helpless  eloquence.     They  creep 
Somehow  into  my  heart,  and  keep 
One  bleak,  cold  corner,  jewel  set. 


Dark-Eyed  Ina. 

0  DARK-EYED  Ina !    All  the  years 
Brought  her  but  solitude  and  tears. 
Lo  !  ever  looking  out  she  stood 
Adown  the  wave,  adown  the  wood, 
Adown  the  strong  stream  to  the  south, 
Sad-faced  and  sorrowful.     Her  mouth  ' 
Push'd  out  so  pitiful.    Her  eyes 
FilFd  full  of  sorrow  and  surprise. 

Men  say  that  looking  from  her  place 
A  love  would  sometimes  light  her  face, 
As  if  sweet  recollections  stirr'd 
Her  heart  and  broke  its  loneliness, 
Like  far  sweet  songs  that  come  to  us, 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  they  are  not  heard, 
So  far,  so  faint,  they  fill  the  air, 
A  fragrance  filling  anywhere. 


108         THE  SHIP  IN  THE  DESERT. 

And  wasting  all  her  summer  years, 
That  utter'd  only  through  her  tears, 
The  seasons  went,  and  still  she  stood 
Forever  watching  down  the  wood. 


Unnamed  Giants. 

A  RACE  of  unnamed  giants  these, 
That  move  tike  gods  among  the  trees, 
So  stern,  so  stubborn-brow'd  and  slow, 
With  strength  of  black-maned  buffalo, 
And  each  man  notable  and  tall, 
A  kingly  and  unconscious  Saul, 
A  sort  of  sullen  Hercules. 

A  star  stood  large  and  white  a-west, 
Then  Time  uprose  and  testified ; 
They  push'd  the  mailed  wood  aside, 
They  toss'd  the  forest  like  a  toy, 
That  great  forgotten  race  of  men, 
The  boldest  band  that  yet  has  been 
Together  since  the  siege  of  Troy, 
And  followed  it ...  and  found  their  rest. 


.  Dead  Azteckee. 

WHITE  Azteckee !    Dead  Azteckee ! 
Vast  sepulchre  of  buried  sea ! 
What  dim  ghosts  hover  on  thy  rim, 
What  stately-manner'd  shadows  swim 
Along  thy  gleaming  waste  of  sands 
And  shoreless  limits  of  dead  lands  ? 

Dread  Azteckee !    Dead  Azteckee ! 
White  place  of  ghosts,  give  up  thy  dead: 
Give  back  to  Time  thy  buried  hosts  1 


THE  SHIP  1ST  THE  DESERT.  109 

The  new  world's  tawny  Ishmaelite, 

The  roving  tent-born  Shoshonee, 

Who  shuns  thy  shores  as  death,  at  night, 

Because  thou  art  so  white,  so  dread, 

Because  thou  art  so  ghostly  white, 

Because  thou  hast  thy  buried  hosts, 

Has  named  thy  shores  "  the  place  of  ghosts." 

Thy  white  uncertain  sands  are  white 
With  bones  of  thy  unburied  dead 
That  will  not  perish  from  the  sight 
They  drown  but  perish  not, — ah  me ! 
What  dread  unsightly  sights  are  spread 
Along  this  lonesome  dried-up  sea. 

White  Azteckee,  give  up  to  me 
Of  all  thy  prison'd  dead  but  one, 
That  now  lies  bleaching  in  the  sun, 
To  tell  what  strange  allurements  lie 
Within  this  dried-up  oldest  sea, 
To  tempt  men  to  its  heart  and  die. 

Old,  hoar,  and  dried-up  sea!  so  old! 
So  strewn  with  wealth,  so  sown  with  golcl  J 
Yea,  thou  art  old  and  hoary  white 
With  time,  and  ruin  of  all  things ; 
And  on  thy  lonesome  borders  Night 
Sits  brooding  as  with  wounded  wings. 

The  winds  that  tossM  thy  wayes  and  blew 
Across  thy  breast  the  blcxwing  sail, 
And  cheePd  the  hearts  of  cheering  crew 
From  farther  seas,  no  more  prevail. 

Thy  white-walPd  cities  all  lie  prone, 
With  but  a  pyramid,  a  stone, 
Set  head  and  foot  in  sands  to  tell 
The  tired  stranger  where  they  fell. 


110  THE  SHIP  IK  THE  DESEET. 


The  Boundless  Space. 

THEY  climb'd  the  rock-built  breasts  of  earth, 

The  Titan-fronted,  blowy  steeps 

That  cradled  Time  . .  .  Where  Freedom  keeps 

Her  flag  of  white  blown  stars  unfurl'd, 

They  turn'd  about,  they  saw  the  birth 

Of  sudden  dawn  upon  the  world ; 

Again  they  gazed ;  they  saw  the  face 

Of  God,  and  named  it  boundless  space. 


Famishing. 

IT  was  a  sight !    A  slim  dog  slid 
White-mouth'd  and  still  along  the  sand, 
The  pleading  picture  of  distress. 
He  stopp'd,  leap'd  up  to  lick  a  hand, 
A  hard  black  hand  that  sudden  chid 
Him  back  and  check'd  his  tenderness ; 
But  when  the  black  man  turn'd  his  head 
His  poor  mute  friend  had  fallen  dead. 

The  ver^  air  hung  white  with  heat, 
And  white,  and  fair  and  far  away 
A  lifted,  shining  snow-shaft  lay 
As  if  to  mock  their  mad  retreat. 


The  Little  Maid. 

little  maid  of  ten, — such  eyes, 
So  large  and  lonely,  so  divine, — 
Such  pouting  lips,  such  peachy  cheek, — 
Did  lift  her  perfect  eyes  to  mine, 
Until  our  souls  did  touch  and  speak ; 
Stood  by  me  all  that  perfect  day, 
Yet  not  one  sweet  word  could  she  say. 


THE   SHIP  IK  THE   DESERT.  Ill 

She  turned  her  melancholy  eyes 
So  constant  to  my  own,  that  I 
Forgot  the  going  clouds,  the  sky, 
Found  fellowship,  took  bread  and  wine, 
And  so  her  little  soul  and  mine 
Stood  very  near  together  there.  - 
And  0, 1  found  her  very  fair. 
Yet  not  one  soft  word  could  she  say; 
What  did  she  think  of  all  that  day  ? 


The  One  Lost  Birdling. 

THIS  isle  is  all  their  own.    No  more 
The  flight  b^  day,  the  watch  by  night. 
Dark  Ina  twines  about  the  door 
The  scarlet  blooms,  the  blossoms  white, 
And  winds  red  berries  in  her  hair, 
And  never  knows  the  name  of  care. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds ;  they  blow 
In  rainbow  clouds,  in  clouds  of  snow ; 
The  birds  take  berries  from  her  hand ; 
They  come  and  go  at  her  command. 

She  has  a  thousand  pretty  birds, 
That  sing  her  summer  songs  all  day; 
Small  black-hoofed  antelope  in  herds, 
And  squirrels  bushy-tail'd  and  gray, 
With  round  and  sparkling  eyes  of  pink, 
And  cunning-faced  as  you  can  think. 

She  has  a  thousand  busy  birds ; 

And  is  she  happy  in  her  isle, 

With  all  her  feathered  friends  and  herds  ? 

For  when  has  Morgan  seen  her  smile  ? 


112  THE  SHIP  IX  THE  DESERT. 

She  has  a  thousand  cunning  birds, 
They  would  build  nestings  in  her  hair; 
She  has  brown  antelope  in  herds  ; 
She  never  knows  the  name  of  care  ; 
Why  then  is  she  not  happy  there  ? 

All  patiently  she  bears  her  part ; 
She  has  a  thousand  birdlings  there, 
These  birds  they  would  build  in  her  hair; 
But  not  one  bird  builds  in  her  heart. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds ;  yet  she 
Would  give  ten  thousand  cheerfully, 
All  bright  of  plume  and  loud  of  tongue, 
And  sweet  as  ever  trilled  or  sung, 
For  one  small  fluttered  bird  to  come 
And  sit  within  her  heart,  though  dumb. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds ;  yet  one 
Is  lost,  and,  lo !  she  is  undone. 
She  sighs  sometimes.     She  looks  away, 
And  yet  she  does  not  weep  or  say. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds.    The  skies 

Are  fashioned  for  her  paradise ; 

A  very  queen  of  fairy  land, 

With  all  earth's  fruitage  at  command, 

And  yet  she  does  not  lift  her  eyes. 

She  sits  upon  the  water's  brink 

As  mournful  soul'd  as  you  can  think. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds ;  and  yet 
She  will  look  downward,  nor  forget 
The  fluttered  white-winged  turtle-dove, 
The  changeful-throated  birdling,  love, 
That  came,  that  sang  through  tropic  trees, 
Then  flew  for  aye  across  the  seas. 


THE  SHIP  IK  THE  DESERT.         113 

The  waters  kiss  her  feet ;  above 
Her  head  the  trees  are  blossoming, 
And  fragrant  with  eternal  spring. 
Her  birds,  her  antelope  are  there, 
Her  birds  they  would  build  in  her  hair; 
She  only  waits  her  birdling,  love. 
She  turns,  she  looks  along  the  plain, 
Imploring  love  to  come  again. 


THE  BARONESS  OF  NEW  YORK. 


fTIHE  last  published  work  of  Mr.  MILLER,  the  criticisms  on  which  are 
-*-  too  fresh  to  need  supplementary  words  at  the  editor's  hands.  A  few 
journals,  like  the  New  York  Evening  J/a#,  have  denounced  it  as  "  an  out 
rage,"  "  a  monstrosity,"  etc.,  but  others,  whose  critics  have  probably  read 
the  work  through,  admit  it  possesses  some  extraordinary  beauties  as  well 
as  bad  faults.  The  plot  is  more  pretentious  than  that  of  any  preceding 
poem.  The  story  opens  in  the  far  West,  and  gives  to  the  first  part  of  the 
book  its  title,  "  In  the  Forest."  The  heroine  next  becomes  "  the  Baroness 
of  New  York,"  and  the  second  part  is  entitled  "  On  Fifth  Avenue."  The 
author,  at  times  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Butler's  Budibras,  but  at  other 
times  in  his  customary  cast  of  verse,  hits  severe  blows  at  the  "  Upper  Ten  " 
society,  so-called,  in  New  York.  The  opening  verses  of  the  book  are 
mainly  what  constituted  the  poem  read  at  Dartmouth  Commencement,  in 
1876,  which  was  written  at  Philadelphia  during  the  Centennial ;  the  remain 
der  of  the  volume  was  composed  in  New  York  in  the  Spring  and  Summer 
of  1877.  Published  in  September,  1877,  by  Carleton,  New  York. 


My  brave  world-builders  of  the  West  / 
Why,  who  doth  know  ye?     Who  shall  know 
But  I,  who  on  thy  peaks  of  snow 
Brake  bread  tlie  first  ?    Who  loves  ye  lest  f 
Who  holds  ye  still,  of  more  stern  worth 
Than  att  proud  peoples  of  the  earth  f 

Tea,  I,  the  rhymer  of  ivfld  rhymes, 

Indifferent  of  blame  or  praise, 

Still  sing  of  ye,  as  one  who  plays 

The  same  shrill  air  in  aU  strange  climes — 

The  same  mid  piercing  highland  air, — 

Because,  because  his  heart  is  there. 


The  Baroness— In  the  Wood. 

*OW  beautiful  she  was  !    Why,  she 
Was  inspiration.     She  was  born 
To  walk  God's  summer-hills  at  morn 
Nor  waste  her  by  a  wood-dark  sea. 
What  wonder,  then,  her  sours  white  wings 
Beat  at  the  bars,  like  living  things  ? 

She  ofttime  sighed,  and  wandered  through 
The  sea-bound  wood,  then  stopped  and  drew 
Her  hand  above  her  head,  and  swept 
The  lonesome  sea,  and  ever  kept 
Her  face  to  sea,  as  if  she  knew 
Some  day,  some  near  or  distant  day, 
Her  destiny  should  come  that  way. 

How  proud  she  was !    How  purely  fair ! 
How  full  of  faith,  of  love  and  strength ! 
Her  great,  proud  eyes  !    Her  great  hair's  length— 
Her  long,  strong,  tumbled,  careless  hair, 
Half  curled  and  knotted  anywhere, 
From  brow  to  breast,  from  cheek  to  chin, 
For  love  to  trip  and  tangle  in. 

How  beautiful  she  was !    How  wild ! 
How  pure  as  water-plant  this  child, 
This  one  wild  child  of  nature,  here 
Grown  tall  in  shadows !    And  how  near 
To  God,  where  no  man  stood  between 
Her  eyes  and  scenes  no  man  hath  seen. 
Stop  still,  my  friend,  and  do  not  stir, 
Shut  close  your  page  and  think  of  her. 


118  THE  BARONESS  OF  NEW  YORK. 


How  the  Night  Came. 

THE  drowned  sun  sank  and  died.    He  lay 
In  seas  of  blood.     He  sinking  drew 
The  gates  of  heaven  sudden  to. 
Yet  long,  strong  ribbons  stretched  away 
As  if  the  gates  still  jarred  agape — 
Tied  back  by  ribbons  and  red  tape. 

The  tall  trees  blossomed  into  stars. 
The  moon  climbed  slowly  up  the  cone, 
She  sat  an  empress  on  her  throne. 
Her  silver  beams  fell  down  in  bars 
Between  the  mighty,  mossy  trees — 
Grand,  kingly  comrades  of  the  wood, 
That  shoulder  unto  shoulder  stood 
With  friendships  knit  through  centuries. 

The  night  came,  moving  in  dim  flame, 
As  lighted  by  round  Autumn  sun 
Descending  through  the  hazy  blue. 
It  were  a  gold  and  amber  hue 
And  all  hues  blended  into  one. 
The  moon  spilled  fire  where  she  came 
And  filled  the  yellow  wood  with  flame. 


The  Sunset  Land. 

IN  the  land  of  the  wonderful  sun  and  weather, 
With  green  under  foot  and  with  gold  over  head, 

Where  the  sun  takes  flame,  and  you  wonder  whether 
'Tis  an  isle  of  fire  in  his  foamy  bed : 

Where  the  ends  of  the  earth  they  are  welding  together 
In  a  rough-hewn  fashion,  in  a  forge  flame  red : 

In  the  land  where  the  rabbits  dance  delicate  measures, 
At  night  by  the  moon  in  the  sharp  chapparral : 


THE  BARONESS  OF  NEW  YOKE.  119 

Where  the  squirrels  build  homes  in  the  earth  and 

hoard  treasures : 
Where  the  wolves  fight  in  armies,  fight  faithful  and 

well; 

Fight  almost  like  Christians;  fight  on  and  find  pleas 
ures 
In  strife,  like  to  man  turning  earth  into  hell : 

Where  the  plants  are  as  trees :  where  the  trees  are  as 

towers 

That  toy,  as  it  seems,  with  the  stars  at  night : 
Where  the  roses  are  forests:  where  the  wild- wood 

flowers 

Are  dense  unto  darkness :  where,  reaching  for  light, 
They  spill  in  your  bosom  their  fragrance  in  showers 
Like  incense  spilled  down  in  some  sacrament  rite. 

'Tis  the  new-finished  world  ;  how  silent  with  wonder 
Stand  all  things  around  you ;  the  flowers  are  faint 

And  lean  on  your  shoulder.    You  wander  on  under 
The  broad,  gnarly  boughs,  so  colossal  and  quaint, 

You  breathe  the  sweet  balsam  where  boughs  break 

asunder — 
The  world  seems  so  new,  as  if  smelling  of  paint. 


Fire  in  the  Forest. 

THEN  suddenly  the  silent  wood 
Was  sounding  like  a  broken  flood, 
And  far  adown  some  dark  smoke  curled, 
As  if  from  out  an  under-world. 

Slim  snakes  slid  quick  from  out  the  grass, 
From  wood,  from  fen,  from  everywhere : 
As  if  they  sped  pursuing  her : 
They  slid  a  thousand  snakes,  and  then 
You  could  not  step,  you  would  not  pass, 
And  you  would  hesitate  to  stir, 


120  THE  BAKONESS  OF  NEW  YOKE. 

Lest  in  some  sudden,  hurried  tread, 
Your  foot  struck  some  unbruised  head. 
It  was  so  weird,  it  seemed  withal, 
The  very  grass  began  to  crawl. 

They  slid  in  streams  into  the  stream, 
They  rustled  leaves  along  the  wood, 
They  hissed  and  rattled  as  they  ran 
As  if  in  mockery  of  man, 
It  seemed  like  some  infernal  dream  : 
It  seemed  as  they  would  fill  the  flood. 

They  curved  and  graceful  curved  across, 
Like  deep  and  waving  sea-green  moss — 
There  is  no  art  of  man  can  make 
A  ripple  like  a  running  snake. 

The  wild  beasts  leaped  from  out  the  wood 
They  rent  the  forest  as  they  fled; 
They  plunged  into  the  foaming  flood, 
And  swam  with  wild,  exalted  head. 

It  seemed  as  if  some  mighty  hand 
Had  sudden  loosened  all  command. 
They  howled  as  if  the  hand  of  God 
Pursued  and  scourged  them  with  a  rod. 


A  Common  Code  of  Men. 

His  was  the  common  code  of  men 
To  pillage,  plunder  hearts,  and  then, 
Thief-like,  depart  before  the  dawn, 
And  leave  behind  a  haunted  hall 
With  broken  statues  on  the  floor — 
With  household  idols  scattered  o'er, 
And  only  shadows  on  the  wall, 
That  never,  never  are  withdrawn. 


THE  BABONESS  OF  NEW  YOKE.  121 


Doughal  and  the  Priest. 

THE  priest  came  forth  as  if  he  came 
From  'twixt  twin  monarchs  of  the  wood, 
That  like  cathedral  columns  stood. 
And  Doughal  started.     Was  he  there 
To  keep  his  fair  maid  from  despair  ? 
To  keep  her  white,  sweet  soul  from  shame  ? 
Had  this  same  priest  forever  stood 
And  ever  watched  him,  in  this  wood  ? 

The  silent  priest  placed  hand  in  hand, 
Upheld  his  cross  against  the  sun, 
As  in  most  solemn  service  done 
In  any  clime  or  Christian  land ; 
Then,  falling  on  his  knees,  he  prayed 
Before  the  pure  and  pallid  maid, 
As  to  Madonna.     Doughal  fell 
Upon  his  knees,  and  all  was  welL 


The  Bridal  Kiss. 

HE  careless  turned,  put  forth  his  hand, 
Half  stooped  as  if  to  heedless  kiss 
The  lips  the  priest  had  now  made  his — 
Those  lips,  the  proudest  in  the  land 
Had  died  to  touch  in  that  brave  time 
When  valor  had  a  name  sublime, — 
When  Spain's  proud  banners  blew  along 
The  rock-built  hills  of  Jebus,  and 
A  woman's  name  and  woman's  fame 
Were  chorus  to  the  soldier's  song. 


The  Magnet. 

THIS  child  was  as  Madonna  to 
The  tawny,  brawny,  lonely  few 


THE  BARONESS  OF  NEW  YORK. 

Who  touched  her  hand  and  knew  her  soul. 
She  drew  them,  drew  them  as  the  pole 
Points  all  things  to  itself.     She  drew 
Men  upward  as  a  moon  of  spring, 
High  wheeling,  vast  and  bosomfnl, 
Half  clad  in  clouds  and  white  as  wool, 
Draws  all  the  strong  seas  following. 


A  Majestic  Mouth. 

How  beautiful !    How  proud  and  free ! 

How  more  than  Greek  or  Tuscan  she 

In  full  development.    Her  mouth 

Was  majesty  itself.    Give  me 

A  mouth  as  warm  as  summer  south — 

A  great,  Greek  mouth,  for  through  this  gate 

Man  first  must  pass  to  love's  estate. 


The  Forest  Aflame. 

THE  flames  leapt  like  some  winged  steed 
When  furies  ride  in  tempest  flight, 
They  leapt  from  tossing  top  and  height 
Of  rosin  pine  to  fragrant  fir — 
They  seemed  to  lose  themselves,  to  whir 
Like  sportive  birds,  and  in  their  speed 
Leap  on  in  long  advance,  and  dart 
Ked  lances  through  the  forest's  heart. 

The  birds  rose  dense,  a  feathered  cloud, 
And  flew  with  croakings  lorn  and  loud, 
With  drooping,  weary  wings  and  slow, 
And  blew  toward  the  cone  of  snow. 
The  fierce  flame  saw  them,  and  he  came, 
A  sounding  full  red  sea  of  flame. 


THE  BAEONESS  OF  NEW  YOEK.  123 

The  winds  came  like  some  great,  third  wave 

Across  the  tossing  tops  of  fire. 

The  flames  leapt  high,  then  high,  then  higher — 

He  sounded  like  some  hollowed  cave. 

Like  battle  steed,  all  undismayed, 

He  leaped  like  some  mad  steed.     He  neighed.       *_ 

He  laughed  at  clouds  of  birds.    He  laid 

The  forest  level  where  he  came. 

He  fanned  the  very  stars  to  flame. 


Adora  in  Tears. 

A  BRIGHT  brown  nut  dropped  like  a  star 
From  woody  heaven  overhead, 
A  wild  beast  trumpeting  afar 
Aroused  her  ere  the  light  had  fled. 

A  stray,  dead  leaf  was  in  her  hair — 
Her  long,  strong,  tumbled  storm  of  hair; 
Her  eyes  seemed  floating  anywhere. 
Her  proud  development,  half  bare, 
And  beautiful  as  chiseled  stone 
Of  famed  far  Napoli,  leaned  there 
Like  some  fair  Thracian  overthrown. 

She  was  not  shamed.    Her  love  was  high 
And  pure  and  fair  as  heaven's  blue. 
Her  love  was  passionate,  yet  true 
As  upward  flame.     A  stifled  sigh 
And  then  a  flood  of  tears,  and  To ! 
A  sigh  that  shook  her  being  so 
It  startled  Doughal  where  he  stood, 
Like  some  bowed  monarch  of  the  wood. 

Her  proud  face  now  fell  white  as  wool, 
Her  lips  fell  pale  and  pityf  ul. 
Her  great,  proud  mouth,  a  splendid  flower, 
Drooped  pale  and  passionless.    Her  arms 


124  THE  BAKONESS   OF  NEW  YOKE. 

Beached  out  in  suppliance.    Her  charms 

Like  ravished  lilies  lay.  *  * 

Her  soul  was  beaten  as  a  shore 

Is  beaten  by  a  storm  just  o'er 

That  will  but  beat  and  beat  the  more. 


To  Fifth  Avenue. 

0  BEAUTIFUL,  long,  loved  Avenue ! 
So  faithless  to  truth,  and  yet  so  true ! 
Thou  camp  in  battle  with  the  shouts  in  air, 
The  neighing  of  steeds  and  the  trumpet's  blare ! 
Thou  iron-faced  sphynx ;  thy  steadfast  eyes 
Encompass  all  seas.    Thy  hands  likewise 
Lay  hold  on  the  peaks.    The  land  and  the  sea 
Make  tribute  alike,  and  the  mystery 
Of  Time  it  is  thine  . . .  Say,  what  art  thou 
But  the  scroll  of  the  Past  rolled  into  the  Now  ? 

0  throbbing  and  pulsing  proud  Avenue ! 
Thou  generous  robber !    Thou  more  than  Tyre ! 
Thou  mistress  of  pirates !    Thou  heart  of  fire ! 
Thou  heart  of  the  world's  heart,  pulsing  to 
The  bald,  white  poles.     So  old ;  so  new. 

So  nude,  yet  garmented  past  desire. 
Thou  tall  splendid  woman,  I  bend  to  thee ; 

1  love  thy  majesty,  mystery ; 

Thy  touches  of  sanctity,  touches  of  taint, 
So  grand  as  a  sinner,  so  good  as  a  saint. 

Thou  heaven  of  lights !    I  stood  at  night 

Far  down  by  a  spire  where  the  stars  shot  through, 

Where  commerce  throbs  strong  as  a  burly  sea  swell, 

And  searched  the  North  Star.     0  Avenue ! 

If  the  road  up  to  God  were  thy  long  lane  of  light ! — 

I  lifted  my  face,  looking  upward  and  far 

By  the  path  of  the  Bear,  underneath  the  North  Star, 


THE  BARONESS   OF  NEW  YORK.  125 

Beyond  the  gas-lights  where  the  falling  stars  spin, 
And  lo  !  no  man  can  tell,  guess  he  never  so  well, 
Where  thy  gaslights  leave  off  or  the  starlights  begin. 


To  Fifth  Avenue  Again. 

0,  AVENUE,  splendid  Fifth  Avenne ! 
Thou  world  in  thyself!    Thou  more  than  Kome, 
When  Kome  sat  throned  and  preeminent ! 
Thy  spires  prick  stars  in  the  moon-bound  blue 
And  stand  mile-stones  on  the  high  road  home. 
I  behold  thy  strength  like  a  stream's  descent 
When  it  flows  to  the  sea  filled  full  to  the  foam: 
My  soul  it  expands  as  an  incense  curled, 
And  proud  as  a  patriot  I  point  the  world 
To  thy  achievement  and  to  thine  intent. 

Dear  and  delicious,  loved  Avenue ! 

I  have  had  my  day  in  the  Bois  de  Bologne, 

I  have  stood  very  near  the  first  steps  of  a  throne, 

I  have  roamed  all  the  cities  of  splendor  through, 

I  have  masked  on  the  Corso  ;  and  many  bright  nights, 

I  have  dashed  Eusk  bells  down  a  lane  of  delights ; 

On  gay  Rotten  Row  I  have  galloped  the  rounds, 

And,  too,  have  made  one  of  a  long  line  of  hounds, 

But  nothing  'neath  sun  or  tide-guiding  moon 

Approaches  thine  populous  afternoon. 


Adora. 

SHE  was  dark  as  Israel ;  proud  and  still 
As  the  Lebanon  trees  on  Palatine  hill. 
She  stood  as  a  lone  brown  palm  that  grew 
In  middle  desert  for  the  shelter  of  men 
From  moving  sand  and  descending  flame. 
Her  name,  Adora.     Her  plain,  simple  name, 


126  THE  BAKONESS  OF  NEW  YORK. 

Meant  nothing  at  all  until  after  you 
Had  seen  her  face,  her  presence,  and  then 
From  that  day  forth  it  had  form,  and  meant 
The  fairest  thing  under  the  firmament. 

Her  name  was  as  language,  and  when  men  knew 

No  word  in  all  tongues  to  give  utterance  to 

Their  grandest  conception  of  beauty,  she 

Stood  up  in  their  souls,  calm,  silently, 

And  filled  the  blank  with  her  simple  name ; 

And  ever  at  mention  or  thought  of  her 

Men  grew  in  soul  as  a  growing  flame 

When  dying  embers  on  the  altar  stir 

In  the  priestess'  hands,  and  all  life  through 

They  lived  the  nobler  for  the  love  they  knew. 


Lost  Love. 

ALAS  !    Alas ! 

Men  only  count  what  their  fellow  has ; 
They  count  his  gains,  but  never  the  cost 
Of  the  jewel,  love,  that  he  may  have  lost. 


Your  Middle-Men. 

I  HATE  your  middle-men ;  men  who 
Are  ever  striving,  straining  to 
A  place  they  don't  fit  in.    They  rise, 
They  hang  between  the  earth  and  skies, 
As  hung  the  prophet's  coffin.     Lies 
Are  on  their  lips,  in  all  their  deeds. 
Their  lives  are  lies,  their  hollow  creeds 
Make  infidel,  sweet  souls  that  bloom 
On  humble  ground,  in  lonely  gloom. 
Write  me  not  of  that  class.    My  name, 
Thank  God,  is  not  of  these.    J  claim 


THE  BAROKESS  OF  NEW  YORK. 

No  middle-class  or  place.    I  lie 
Secure,  and  shall  not  fall,  for  I 
Am  of  the  lowliest  lot — as  low 
As  God's  own  sweetest  flowers  grow. 


Go  View  Fifth  Avenue. 

THE  crowded  carnival  of  Eome, 
That  Saturn  crowns  each  vernal  year, 
Knows  nothing  in  its  proudest  day 
Like  this  magnificent  display 
Of  men  and  maidens  moving  through 
This  populous,  proud  Avenue. 
Yea,  I  have  tracked  the  hemispheres, 
Have  touched  on  fairest  land  that  lies 
This  side  the  gates  of  Paradise ; 
Have  ranged  the  universe  for  years, 
Have  read  the  book  of  beauty  through, 
From  title-leaf  to  colophon, 
"While  pleasure  turned  the  leaves. 

Yet  on 

This  island  bank  your  bark  should  strand, 
Your  feet  should  cleave  this  solid  land ; 
That  you  may  live,  alone  to  view 
The  glory  of  this  Avenue. 

Go  ye,  and  wander  if  you  will, 
For  grace  in  far-off  countries.    Still, 
When  every  foreign  land  is  trod, 
I  know  ye  will  return,  and  you 
Will  lift  your  hands,  protesting  there 
Was  never  yet  a  scene  so  fair 
This  side  the  golden  gates  of  God. 


On  Rousseau's  Isle,  Geneva. 

I  DO  remember  long  ago, 

A  boy,  by  Leman's  languid  flow, 


128  THE  BARONESS  OF  NEW  YORK. 

Alone,  alone !    God,  how  alone ! 
To  land  and  language  all  unknown. 
I  strolled  so  wearily  and  slow, 
And  sad  as  after  death.    The  crowd 
"Was  gay,  and  populous,  and  loud. 

Alone  and  sad  I  sat  me  down 
To  rest  on  Rousseau's  narrow  Isle, 
Below  Geneva.    Mile  on  mile, 
And  set  with  many  a  shining  town, 
Tow'rd  Dent  du  Midi  danced  the  wave 
Beneath  the  moon. 

Winds  went  and  came, 
And  fanned  the  stars  into  a  flame. 
I  heard  the  loved  lake,  dark  and  deep, 
Rise  up  and  talk  as  in  its  sleep. 
I  heard  the  laughing  waters  lave 
And  lap  against  the  farther  shore, 
An  idle  oar,  and  nothing  more, 
Save  that  the  Isle  had  voice,  and  save 
That  round  about  its  base  of  stone 
There  plashed  and  flashed  the  foamy  Rhone. 

The  star-set  Alps  they  sang  a  tune 
Unheard  by  any  soul  save  mine. 
Mont  Blanc,  as  lone  and  as  divine 
And  white,  seemed  mated  to  the  moon. 

The  past  was  mine,  strong-voiced  and  vast : 
Stern  Calvin,  strange  Voltaire,  and  Tell, 
And  two  whose  names  are  known  too  well 
To  name,  in  grand  procession  passed. 


The  Farewell  Letter. 

FAREWELL  !  God  help  me  now.    For  such 
Hard  conflicts  tide  about  my  heart 
That  I  do  hesitate. 


THE  BARONESS  OF  NEW  YOKE.  129 

The  part 

Of  man  is  in  the  ranks  to  die 
Hard  battling  for  the  shining  right ; 
But  when  all  things  partake  a  touch 
Of  darkness  and  a  touch  of  light, 
The  skein  comes  tangled.     Then  the  woof 
And  warp  of  life  proves  reason-proof. 

0  heaven  !  for  a  sword  so  true 

Of  edge  that  I  might  cleave  this  through ! 

The  years  lift  like  a  stair.     Arise 
And  climb  the  stairway  to  the  skies, 
And  look  possession  of  the  world, 
That  lies  quite  conquered  at  your  feet. 
Yet  range  not  far,  I  do  entreat; 
Black  clouds  will  cross  the  fairest  skies, 
The  fullest  tides  must  ebb  and  flow ; 
The  proudest  king  that  e'er  unfurled 
His  banner,  met  his  overthrow 

Farewell,  farewell !  for  aye,  farewell. 
Yet  must  I  end  as  I  began. 

1  love  you,  love  you,  love  but  you — 
I  love  you  now  as  never  man 

Has  loved  since  man  and  woman  fell, 
Or  God  gave  man  inheritance, 
Or  sense  of  love,  or  any  sense. 
And  that  is  why,  0  love,  I  can 
Lift  up  to  you  my  burning  brow 
To-night,  and  so  renounce  you  now. 


The  Morning  After  the  Storm. 

THE  morning  must  succeed  the  night. 
All  storms  subside.    The  clouds  drive  by. 
And  when  again  the  glorious  light 
From  heaven's  gate  comes  bursting  through, 
Behold !  the  rains  have  washed  the  sky 
As  bright  as  heaven's  bluest  blue. 


130  THE  BAKONESS  OF  NEW  YORK. 


The  White-Girdled  Moon. 

THE  great,  white-girdled  moon, 
As  soft  as  summer  afternoon, 
Came  wheeling  up  the  sea,  and  lay 
Her  broad,  white  shoulders  bare  as  day, 
As  if  at  some  fair,  festal  ball 
Of  gathered  stars  at  Carnival. 


Silentness. 

0  GOLDEN,  sacred  silentness! 
Take  thou  the  silver  coin  of  speech, 
And  bribe  your  way  to  hearts,  so  less 
Than  hearts  the  silences  shall  reach. 


The  Worth  of  the  Soul. 

THE  body  is  not  much.    'Twere  best 
Take  up  the  soul  and  leave  the  rest. 
It  seems  to  me  the  man  who  leaves 
The  soul  to  perish,  is  as  one 
"Who  gathers  up  the  empty  sheaves 
When  all  the  golden  grain  is  done. 


Woman's  Instincts. 

MEN  are  not  shrewd  as  women  are ; 
A  woman  feels  an  atmosphere, 
Sees  all,  where  men  see  aught  at  all. 
Her  instincts  lead  where  reason  fall. 
Now  it  may  be  the  reason  is, 
Her  little  feet  are  set  more  near 
The  light  of  golden  gates  ajar. 


THE  BAKCWESS  OF  NEW  YORK.  131 

Copyists. 

I  HATE  all  copyists.     My  plan 
Would  be  to  paint  a  picture ;  do 
A  thing  original.     Now  you 
Have  room  to  paint  eternity, 
In  this  vast  land  where  scarcely  yet 
God's  rounding  compass  has  been  set ; 
And,  for  a  land  so  very  new, 
Your  skies  are  glorious  to  see. 

And  yet  your  silly  painters  paint 
The  old  Italian  figure,  saint 
And  dark  Madonna ;  all  outdone 
The  century  they  first  struck  oil. 
Paint  nature,  sir ;  cast  off  the  coil 
Of  custom.    Why  paint  mortal  more, 
Where  God  leads  ever  on  before, 
As  visible  as  your  broad  sun  ? 
Ah  no !    Your  feeble  painters  paint 
Their  imitation,  till  the  taint 
Of  felony  attaches. 


The  Earth  a  Level  Ball. 

I  HATE  astronomers,  the  fools 
That  spin  the  stars  by  iron  rules, 
And  make  this  level  earth  a  ball, 
That  tumbles  like  a  bumble-bee, 
And  bumps  among  the  blossomed  stars, 
Till  some  fall,  loosened  by  the  jars. 

0,  that  the  world  were  what  she  seems, 
A  broad,  vast,  level  land  of  dreams ; 
A  boundless  land,  a  shoreless  sea, 
A  God-encompassed  mystery — 
With  far  edge  stretching,  climbing  to 
The  sapphire  walls  of  fading  blue, 
That  touch  on  far  eternity ! 


132  THE  BAROKESS  OF  NEW  YOBK. 


The  West's  World-Builders. 

THESE  brave  world-builders  of  the  West, 

They  came  from  God  knows  where,  the  best 

And  worst  of  four  parts  of  the  world. 

"With  naked  blade,  with  flag  unfurled, 

They  bore  new  empires  in  their  plan. 

A  motley  band ;  the  bearded  man, 

The  eager  and  ambitious  boy, 

The  fugitive  from  fallen  Troy, 

The  man  of  fortune,  letters,  fame, 

The  old-world  knight  with  stainless  name, 

The  man  with  heritage  of  shame. 

The  thriftless  Esaus,  hairy  men 

Who  roamed  and  tracked  the  trackless  wood, 

Good,  if  it  pleased  them  to  be  good, 

Or  cruel  as  some  wild  beast  when 

He  tears  a  hunter  limb  by  limb, 

And  so  sits  gloating  over  him. 

Then  cunning  Jacobs,  crafty  men, 
With  spotted  herds,  who  loved  to  keep 
Along  the  hills  a  thousand  sheep, 
Who  strove  with  men  and  strove  as  when 
The  many  sons  digged  down  a  wall 
And  gloried  in  their  fellows'  fall. 

Then  black-eyed  pirates  of  the  sea, 

That  sailing  came  from  none  knew  where, 

That  sought  deep  wooded  inlets  there, 

And  took  possession  silently ; 

To  rest,  they  said,  in  loved  repose — 

To  rest  or  rob,  God  only  knows. 

I  only  know  that  when  that  land 
Lay  thick  with  peril,  and  lay  far 
It  seemed  as  some  sea-fallen  star, 


THE  BARONESS   OF  NEW  YORK.  133 

The  weak  men  never  reached  a  hand 
Or  sought  us  out  that  primal  day, 
And  cowards  did  not  come  that  way. 


A  Sad  White  Dove. 

0 !  I  DID  know  a  sad  white  dove 
That  died  for  some  sufficient  love — 
Some  high-born  soul  with  wings  to  soar, 
That  stood  up  equal  in  his  place, 
That  looked  her  level  in  the  face, 
Nor  wearied  her  with  leaning  o'er, 
To  lift  him  where  she  lonely  trod, 
In  sad  delights  the  hills  of  God. 


Fair  as  Young  Junos. 

THEY  were  fair  as  young  Junos.    Bright  gold  shone 

in  bar, 

And  diamonds  flashed  thick  as  the  meadow  sown  dew, 
That  mirrors  the  gold  of  the  morn-minted  star. 


The  Halo. 

ONE  still,  soft  summer  afternoon 

In  middle  deep  of  wood,  the  two, 

"Where  tangled  vines  twined  through  and  through, 

Together  sat  upon  the  tomb 

Of  perished  pine,  that  once  had  stood 

The  tall-plumed  monarch  of  the  wood. 

The  far-off  pheasant  thummed  a  tune, 

The  faint  far  billows  beat  a  rune 

Like  heart  regrets.     The  sombre  gloom 

Was  ominous.     Around  her  head 

There  shone  a  halo.    Men  have  said 

'Twas  from  the  dash  of  Titian  hue 


134  THE  BAROHESS   OF  NEW  YORK. 

That  flooded  all  her  storm  of  hair 
In  gold  and  glory.    But  they  knew, 
Yea  all  men  know  there  ever  grew 
A  halo  round  about  her  head 
Like  sunlight  scarcely  vanished. 


Thank  God,  He's  Dead. 

HER  two  clasped  hands  fell  down. 
Her  face  forgot  its  dark,  fierce  frown, 
And  sad  and  slow  she  shook  her  head. 
O,  if,  indeed,  it  were  but  hate  ! 
But  love  and  hate  do  intertwine, 
A  serpent,  and  a  laden  vine. 
But  where  is  Doughal  ? 

He  is  dead ! 

Thank  God,  the  man  is  dead !  and  I 
Am  free  as  any  maid  to  wed. 
And  if  he  be  not  dead,  what  then  ? 
Do  I  not  hate  him  with  a  hate 
That  will  not  let  me  hesitate 
Now  at  the  last  ? 

Above  all  men 

I  hate  this  cursed,  cold  man  who  fled, 
And  left  me  in  the  flame  to  die  .... 
And  he  is  dead,  thank  God,  is  dead ! 


Should  I  Desert  Him? 

We  two  once  stood 
On  peril's  bristled  height  alone ; 
We  two,  in  God's  high-lifted  light, 
Exulting  but  in  purity. 
Shall  I  desert  him  overthrown  ? 
Forsake  my  friend  because  his  soul 
Is  slimed  and  perishing  ? 


THE  BARONESS  OF  NEW  YORK.  135 

Ah,  me ! 

'Twere  base  to  fly  and  leave  a  friend 
All  bleeding  on  the  battle-field, 
Without  one  sheltering  hand  or  shield 
To  help  when  battle's  thunders  roll. 

But  that  were  little.     Dying  there 

In  glory's  front,  with  trumpet's  blare, 

And  battle's  shout  blent  wild  about — 

The  sense  of  sacrifice,  the  roar 

Of  war,  the  soul  might  well  leap  out — 

The  snow-white  soul  leap  boldly  out 

The  door  of  wounds,  and  up  the  stair 

Of  heaven  to  God's  open  door, 

While  yet  the  hands  were  bent  in  prayer. 

But  ah !  to  leave  a  soul  o'erthrown, 

And  doomed  to  slowly  die  alone  1 


Near,  Yet  Far. 

His  soul  was  as  some  ship  that  drew 
All  silent  through  the  burst  of  seas, 
Pursuing  some  far  distant  star, 
That  spun  unfixed  forever  through 
The  boundless  upper  seas  of  blue. 
She  seemed  so  near,  and  yet  so  far. 
Just  now  she  seemed  as  near  as  woe ; 
Just  now  she  seemed  as  far  as  though 
They  dwelt  in  the  antipodes. 


SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


npHIS  work  is  in  press  at  the  time  of  this  writing,  but  the  kindness  of  the 
•*•  author  has  placed  its  proof-sheets  at  our  disposal.  It  consists  of  56 
poems,  mostly  written  in  Italy  from  1872  to  1874,  and  dated  from  Florence, 
Venice,  Rome,  Naples,  Como,  Ancona,  Turin,  Pestam,  and  other  places. 
Some  have  heen  published  in  Scribner^  the  Independent,  and  other  Ameri 
can  magazines  and  journals ;  others  are  new.  The  "  Song  of  the  Centen 
nial,"  originally  contributed  to  Frank  Leslie's  Illustrated  Weekly,  is  printed 
at  the  close  of  the  volume.  To  be  published  by  Roberts  Bros.,  Boston. 


This  land  it  is  desolate,  dead  as  death! 
Never  the  sound  of  a  beast  or  a  Urd, 
Nor  voices  of  Nature  above  a  breath ; 
Never  the  wild  deer's  quick  retreat, 
Never  the  pheasant's  far  drumbeat, 
Only  the  tiresome  talk  of  the  brook, 
Only  the  tourist  holding  a  book, 
A  redrbound  book  as  a  lamp  for  his  feet ! 


Rome. 

OME  levelled  hills,  a  wall,  a  dome, 
That  lords  its  gilded  arch  and  lies, 
"While  at  its  base  a  beggar  cries 
For  bread,  and  dies,— and  that  is  Rome. 

Yet  Rome  is  Rome  ;  and  Rome  she  must 
And  shall  remain  beside  her  gates, 
And  tribute  take  of  kings  and  States, 
Until  the  stars  have  fallen  to  dust. 

Yea,  Time  on  yon  campagnian  plain 
Has  pitched  in  siege  his  battle  tents ; 
And  round  about  her  battlements 
Has  marched  and  trumpeted  in  vain. 

These  skies  are  Rome  !    The  very  loam 
Lifts  up  and  speaks  in  Roman  pride ; 
And  Time  outfaced  and  still  defied 
Sits  by  and  wags  his  beard  at  Rome. 


A  Falling  Star. 

LIKE  a  signal  light  through  the  night  let  down 

A  far  star  fell  through  the  dim  profound, 

As  a  jewel  that  slipped  God's  hand  to  the  ground. 


Why  Nights  were  Made. 

THE  nights  they  were  made  to  show  the  light 
Of  the  stars  in  heaven,  tho'  storms  are  near. 


140  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


Christmas  Time  in  Venice. 

THE  high-born,  beautiful  snow  came  down, 

Silent  and  soft  as  the  terrible  feet 

Of  Time  on  the  mosses  of  ruins.     Sweet 

Was  the  Christmas  time  in  the  watery  town. 

'Twas  a  kind  of  carnival  swelled  the  sea 

Of  Venice  that  night,  and  canal  and  quay 

Were  alive  with  humanity.     Men  and  maid 

Glad  in  their  revel  and  masquerade, 

Moved  through  the  feathery  snow  in  the  night, 

And  shook  black  locks  as  they  laughed  outright. 


Morn  in  Venice. 

Some  sounds  blow  in  from  the  distant  land ; 
The  bells  strike  sharp,  and  as  out  of  tune, 
Some  sudden,  short  notes.    To  the  east  and  afar, 
And  up  from  the  sea,  is  lifting  a  star 
As  large,  my  beautiful  child,  and  as  white 
And  as  lovely  to  see  as  your  little  white  hand. 
The  people  have  melted  away  with  the  night, 
And  not  one  gondola  frets  the  lagoon. 
See !    Away  to  the  east — 'tis  the  face  of  morn — 
Hear!    Away  to  the  west — 'tis  the  fisherman's  horn. 


The  Kiss  of  Faith. 

CHILD  of  the  street,  I  will  kiss  you !    Yea, 

I  will  fold  you  and  hold  you  close  to  my  breast. 

And  as  you  lie  resting  in  your  first  rest, 

And  as  night  is  pushed  back  from  the  face  of  day, 

I  will  push  your  tumbled  and  long,  strong  hair 

Well  back  from  your  face,  and  kiss  you  where 


SONGS  OF  ITALY.  141 

Your  ruffian,  bearded,  black  men  of  crime 
Have  stung  you  and  stained  you  a  thousand  time ; 
And  call  you  my  sister,  sweet  child,  as  you  sleep, 
And  waken  you  not,  lest  you  wake  but  to  weep. 

Yea,  tenderly  kiss  you.    And  I  shall  not  be 
Ashamed,  nor  stained  in  the  least,  sweet  dove, — 
Tenderly  kiss,  with  the  kiss  of  Love, 
And  of  Faith  and  of  Hope  and  of  Charity. 
Nay,  I  shall  be  purer  and  better  then; 
For,  child  of  the  street,  you,  living  or  dead, 
Stained  to  the  brows,  are  purer  to  me  * 

Ten  thousand  times  than  the  world  of  men, 
Who  but  reach  you  a  hand  to  lead  you  astray. .  . 
But  the  dawn  is  upon  us !    Rise,  go  your  way. 


To  a  Waif  of  the  Street. 

IF  we  two  were  dead,  and  laid  side  by  side 
Right  here  on  the  pavement,  this  very  day, 
Here  under  the  lion  and  over  the  sea, 
Where  the  morn  flows  in  like  a  rosy  tide, 
And  the  sweet  Madonna  that  stands  in  the  moon, 
With  her  crown  of  stars  just  across  the  lagoon, 
Should  come  and  should  look  upon  you  and  me, — 
Do  you  reckon,  my  child,  that  she  would  decide, 
As  men  do  decide  and  as  women  do  say, 
That  you  are  so  dreadful,  and  turn  away  ? 

If  the  angel  were  sent  to  choose  to-day 

Between  us  two  as  we  lay  here, 

Dead  and  alone  in  this  desolate  place, — 

You,  white  with  a  hunger  and  stained  with  a  tear, 

Or  I,  the  rover  the  whole  world  through, 

Restless  and  stormy  as  any  sea, — 


142  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

If  the  angel  were  sent  to  choose,  I  say, 
This  very  moment  the  best  of  the  two, 
Looking  us  two  right  straight  in  the  face, 
Child  of  the  street,  he  would  not  choose  me. 

The  fresh  sun  is  falling  on  turret  and  tower, 
The  far  sun  is  flashing  on  spire  and  dome, 
The  marbles  of  Venice  are  bursting  to  flower, 
The  marbles  of  Venice  are  flower  and  foam : 
Child  of  the  street,  oh,  waken  you  now ! 
There !  bear  my  kiss  on  your  brave  white  brow, 
Through  earth  to  heaven :  and  when  we  meet 
Beyond  the  waters,  poor  waif  of  the  street, 
"Why,  then  I  shall  know  you,  my  sad,  sweet  dove, 
And  claim  you  and  kiss  you  with  the  kiss  of  love. 


Sunrise  in  Venice. 

THE  east  is  blossoming !    Yea,  a  rose, 
Vast  as  the  heavens,  soft  as  a  kiss, 
Sweet  as  the  presence  of  woman  is, 
Kises  and  reaches,  and  widens  and  grows 
Large  and  luminous  up  from  the  sea 
And  out  of  the  sea,  as  a  blossoming  tree. 

Kicher  and  richer,  so  higher  and  higher, 
Deeper  and  deeper  it  takes  its  hue ; 
Brighter  and  brighter  it  reaches  through 
The  space  of  heaven  and  the  place  of  stars, 
Till  all  is  as  rich  as  a  rose  can  be, 
And  my  rose-leaves  fall  into  billows  of  fire. 
Then  beams  reach  upward  as  arms  from  a  sea ; 
Then  lances  and  arrows  are  aimed  at  me. 
Then  lances  and  spangles  and  spars  and  bars 
Are  broken  and  shivered  and  strown  on  the  sea; 
And  around  and  about  me  tower  and  spire 
Start  from  the  billows  like  tongues  of  fire* 


SONGS  or  ITALY.  143 


Lone. 

I  AM  as  lone  as  lost  winds  on  the  height; 
As  lone  as  yonder  leaning  moon  at  night, 
That  climbs,  like  some  sad,  noiseless-footed  nun, 
Far  up  against  the  steep  and  starry  height, 
As  if  on  holy  mission.     Yea,  as  one 
That  knows  no  ark,  or  isle,  or  resting-plaee, 
Or  chronicle  of  time,  or  wheeling  sun, 
I  drive  forever  on  through  endless  space. 
Like  some  lone  bird  in  everlasting  flight, 
My  lonesome  soul  sails  on  through  lonesome  seas  of 
night. 


A  Storm  in  Venice. 

THE  pent  sea  throbbed  as  if  racked  with  pain. 
Some  black  clouds  rose  and  suddenly  rode 
Eight  into  the  town.     The  thunder  strode 
As  a  giant  striding  from  star  to  star, 
Then  turned  upon  earth  and  franticly  came, 
Shaking  the  hollow  heaven.     And  far 
And  near  red  lightning  in  ribbon  and  skein 
Did  write  upon  heaven  Jehovah's  name. 
Then  lightnings  went  weaving  like  shuttle-cocks, 
Weaving  black  raiment  of  clouds  for  death  ; 
The  mute  doves  flew  to  Saint  Mark  in  flocks, 
And  men  stood  leaning  with  gathered  breath. 
Black  gondolas  flew  as  never  before, 
And  drew  like  crocodiles  upon  the  shore ; 
And  vessels  at  sea  stood  further  at  sea, 
And  seamen  hauled  with  a  bended  knee. 
Then  canvas  came  down  to  left  and  to  right ; 
And  ships  stood  stripped  as  if  stripped  for  fight! 


144  SOtfGS  OF  ITALY. 


The  Ideal. 

I  STOOD  by  the  lion  of  St.  Mark  in  that  hour 
Of  Venice,  when  gold  of  the  sunset  is  rolled 
From  cloud  to  cathedral,  to  turret  and  tower, 
In  matchless,  magnificent  garment  of  gold. 
Then  I  knew  she  was  near ;  yet  I  had  not  known 
Her  form  or  her  face  since  the  stars  were  sown. 

We  two  had  been  parted — God  pity  us ! — when 
The  stars  were  unnamed  and  all  heaven  was  dim ; 
We  two  had  been  parted  far  back  on  the  rim 
And  the  outermost  border  of  heaven's  red  bars ; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  the  meeting  of  men, 
Or  God  had  set  compass  on  spaces  as  yet ; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  God  had  set 
His  finger  to  spinning  the  purple  with  stars, — 
And  now,  at  the  last  in  the  gold  and  set 
Of  the  sun  of  Venice,  we  two  had  met. 
*  #  *  # 

Then,  my  love  she  is  rich  !  My  love  she  is  fair ! 
Is  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there  ? 
She  is  gorgeous  with  wealth !  "  Thank  God,  she  has 

bread," 

I  said  to  myself.  Then  I  humbled  my  head 
In  gratitude.  Then  I  questioned  me  where 
Was  her  palace,  her  parents  ?  What  name  did  she 

bear? 

What  mortal  on  earth  came  nearest  her  heart  ? 
Who  touched  the  small  hand  till  it  thrilled  to  a  smart  ? 
'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.    She  was  proud,  she  was 

fair — 
Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there  ? 


And  the  Real. 

I  TOLD  her  all  things.     Her  brow  took  a  frown  ; 
Her  grand  Titian  beauty,  so  tall,  so  serene, 


SONGS  OF  ITALY.  145 

The  one  perfect  woman,  mine  own  idol  queen ! 
Her  proud  swelling  bosom  it  broke  up  and  down  : 
Then  she  spake,  and  she  shook  in  her  soul  as  she  eaid 
With  her  small  hands  upheld  to  her  bent,  aching 

head, 

"  Go  back  to  the  world !  go  back  and  alone, 
Thou  strange,  stormy  soul,  intense  as  mine  own ! " 
I  said :  "  I  will  wait  f  I  will  wait  in  the  pass 
Of  death,  until  Time  he  shall  break  his  glass ! 


"  It  is  breaking  my  heart ;  but,  'tis  best,"  she  said. 
"  Thank  God  that  this  life  is  but  a  day's  span, 
But  a  wayside  inn  for  weary,  worn  man — 
A  night  and  a  day ;  and,  to-morrow,  the  spell 
Of  darkness  is  broken.    Now,  darling,  farewell ! 
Nay,  touch  not  the  hem  of  my  robe ! — it  is  red 
With  sin  that  your  own  sex  heaped  on  my  head ! 
But  go,  love,  go !    Yet  remember  this  plan, 
That  whoever  dies  first  is  to  sit  down  and  wait 
Inside  death's  door,  and  watch  at  the  gate." 


Longing  for  Home. 

I  MISS,  how  wholly  I  miss  my  wood, 

My  matchless,  magnificent,  dark-leaved  fir, 

That  climbs  up  the  terrible  heights  of  Hood, 

Where  only  the  breath  of  white  heaven  stirs ! 

These  Alps  they  are  barren  ;  wrapped  in  storms, 

Formless  masses  of  Titan  forms, 

They  loom  like  ruins  of  a  grandeur  gone, 

And  lonesome  as  death  to  look  upon. 

0  God !  once  more  in  my  life  to  hear 
The  voice  of  a  wood  that  is  loud  and  alive, 
That  stirs  with  its  being  like  a  vast  bee-hive ! 
And  oh  !  once  more  in  my  life  to  see 

7 


146  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


The  great  bright  eyes  of  the  an  tiered  deer ; 
To  sing  with  the  birds  that  sing  for  me, 
To  tread  where  only  the  red  man  trod, 
To  say  no  word,  but  listen  to  God ! 


To  the  American  Flag. 

You  stars  stand  sentry  at  the  door  of  dawn. 

You  bars  break  empires.     Kings  in  vain 

Shall  rave  and  thunder  at  Freedom's  fane, 

Till  the  stars  leave  heaven  and  the  bars  be  gone. 

Then  wave,  0  flag,  like  the  waves  of  the  sea  • 

Yea,  curve  as  the  waves  curve,  wild  and  free, 

And  cover  the  world.    Exult  in  the  sun, 

But  thunder  and  threaten  where  the  black  storms 

run; 

And  the  years  shall  be  yours  while  the  eons  roll ; 
Ay,  yours  till  the  heavens  be  rolled  as  a  scroll. 


MISCELLANIES. 


THE  ONE   FAIR  WOMAN,    THE  BLUE  AND  THE 
GREY,  AND  MINOR  WRITINGS. 


"rpHE  One  Fair  Woman"  is  a  most  curious  romance,  with  strong 
-*-  tinges  of  reality,  founded  upon  the  author's  visits  to  Italy.  Some 
of  the  sketches  of  travel  with  which  it  abounds  were  contributed  to  the 
New  York  Independent,  the  Overland  Monthly,  and  Gentleman's  Magazine. 
They  were  to  have  appeared  in  book  form  as  simply  notes  of  Italian 
journeys,  but,  by  suggestion,  the  story  was  inwoven  with  them.  The 
work  was  hardly  a  success,  because  tedious ;  but  as  a  guide-book  to  Italy 
it  will  be  found  to  be  an  improvement  on  some  others  of  more  practical 
pretensions.  The  verse  on  the  opposite  page,  from  Swinburne,  may  have 
suggested  the  title.  Published  by  Chapman  &  Hall,  London,  1874,  in  four 
volumes,  and  by  Carleton,  New  York,  in  1874,  in  one  volume. 

u  The  Blue  and  the  Grey  "  is  a  story  written  for  the  Cincinnati  Enquirer 
and  subsequently  revised  for  and  published  in  The  Somerset  Gazette, 
Somerville,  N.  J.  It  is  sufficiently  voluminous  for  a  volume. 

The  poetical  selections  are  from  the  poems  "Custer  and  his  Three 
Hundred,"  "  The  Inauguration  of  President  Hayes,"  and  "  The  Sioux 
Chiefs  Daughter."  A  few  also  are  interspersed  from  "  The  First  Fam'lies 
of  the  Sierras." 


There  lived  a  singer  in  France  of  old, 

By  the  tideless,  dolorous,  midland  sea. 
In  a  land  of  sand  and  ruin  and  gold 

There  shone  one  woman  and  none  but  she. 
And  finding  life  for  her  love's  sake  fail, 
Being  fain  to  see  her,  he  bade  set  sail, 
Touched  land,  and  saw  her  as  life  grew  cold, 
And  praised  God  seeing;  and  so  died  he! 

—SWINBURNE. 


The  Eternal  City. 

THE  sun  goes  down  on  Eome;  and  round 
about  Eome  on  the  mighty  mountain  tops 
was  drawn  a  girdle  of  fire.  Twenty  miles 
away  to  the  west,  as  they  returned,  flashed 
the  sea  in  the  dying  sun  of  Italy,  like  a 
hemisphere  of  flame.  Before  them,  in  the  middle  of 
the  great  Campagna,  with  its  far  off  wall  of  eternal 
and  snowy  mountains,  huddled  together  the  white 
houses  of  Kome,  like  a  flock  of  goats  gathered  to  rest 
for  the  night;  and  mighty  St.  Peter's  towered  above 
them  all  like  a  tall  shepherd  keeping  watch  and  ward. 
"  Now  I  can  see  that  it  was  no  chance  or  accident  that 
built  the  Eternal  City  in  the  centre  of  this  mighty 
amphitheatre,"  said  Murietta.  "Nature  ordered  it. 
She  pointed  to  the  little  group  of  hills  lifting  out  of 
the  plain  by  the  Tiber  and  said, '  Build  your  city  on 
the  Palatine !"> 


Italy  Tired. 

ITALY  looks  so  very  tired.  Let  her  lie  down  and 
rest.  She  is  old  and  weary,  and  worn,  and  storm- 
stained,  and  battered,  and  battle-torn,  till  it  seems  like 
irreverence  to  ask  her  now  to  rise  up  and  take  a  place 
among  the  powers  of  the  earth.  Let  her  rest,  and  we 
will  respect,  aye,  reverence  her  still.  We  will  come  up 
from  the  under-world,  and  sit  at  her  feet  and  listen, 
and  learn  from  her  songs  of  a  thousand  years. 


Lake  Como. 

PEACE,  and  the  perfect  summer.  Cool  waters,  and 
music  all  the  time  floating  on  the  waters  from  under 
the  banners  of  strange  lands.  People  coming  and 


150  MISCELLANIES. 

going  away.  Beautiful  Saxon  women,  and  tall  half 
Greek  fishermen.  Citizens  sitting  in  the  cool  of  the 
trees  by  the  water.  Clouds  blowing  against  the  blue 
sky.  White  snow  peaks  flashing  afar  off  in  the  sun. 
Fruit  at  your  hand  and  flowers  at  your  feet.  Peace 
in  the  air.  Comeliness  everywhere.  This  is  Como. 


Poets. 

SUCCESSFUL  men  live  in  the  age  in  which  they  are 
born.  Great  men  live  in  advance  of  it.  Poets  and 
painters  belong  to  no  age.  They  fit  in  nowhere  on 
the  top  of  the  earth.  They  are  more  out  of  place 
than  the  other  great  men  in  the  world's  gallery  of 
statuary.  Strange,  restless,  and  unhappy  men,  they 
hasten  on  through  life,  forgetting  that  the  end  of  the 
road  is  but  a  grave.  But  the  gods  love  them ;  and 
this  must  be  their  consolation,  for  certainly  they  have 
little  else. 


Faces  Change. 

FACES  change  so.  Let  a  face  be  backed  by  blood 
and  mettle,  let  the  soul  be  hallowed  by  experience, 
and  made  mellow  as  a  ploughed  field  by  furrows  that 
have  torn  it  up ;  let  it  be  made  charitable  of  the  sins 
of  others  by  a  sense  of  its  own  sins, — and  you  have  a 
face  that  will  wear  as  many  changes  of  expression  as 
the  wind  and  weather. 


A  Suggestion. 

a  man  returns  late  at  night  and  kisses  his 
wife  with  more  than  ordinary  tenderness,  she  may  be 
pretty  certain  that  he  has  been  in  mischief! 


MISCELLANIES.  151 


A  Perfect  Face. 

IT  was  a  splendid,  dark,  dreamy  face.  It  seemed  to 
move  before  you,  to  pass  on,  to  look  back,  to  lead  you. 
It  beckoned  from,  and  belonged  to  the  future.  It 
was  of  a  race  that  you  might  imagine,  but  would 
never  find,  though  you  should  go  the  whole  girdle  of 
the  earth.  It  was  the  divinest  face  that  had  ever  be 
longed  to  woman  since  the  blessed  Madonna.  Stand 
ing  before  it,  as  it  looked  back  over  its  shoulders  from 
the  cloud  and  mystery  from  the  future,  you  would 
have  to  say  this  face  is  as  the  face  of  woman  will  be 
millions  of  ages  in  the  years  to  come,  when  we  have 
attained  to  perfection  on  earth. 


Do  Not  Drift. 

You  had  better  sail  boldly  on  in  almost  any  direc 
tion  than  drift  without  any  direction  at  all.  You  had 
better  sail  in  the  maddest  storm  that  ever  troubled 
your  sea  of  life,  than  lie  on  the  sea  and  drift  with  any 
wind  that  chooses  to  blow. 


The  Little  Hand. 

THERE  was  a  pretty  beggar-boy,  with  his  feet  in 
sandals  fastened  with  red  silk  ribbons,  a  sheepskin 
coat,  and  a  red  shirt  open  in  the  breast,  and  the  pret 
tiest  face  that  could  be.  How  well  he  played !  His 
head  would  drop  to  one  side,  his  pretty  lips  pout  out, 
his  great,  brown  eyes  half  hiding  under  his  hair  that 
had  been  a  fortune  to  a  belle  of  fashion ;  and  such  a 
perfect  pathos !  And  then  his  little  dimpled  brown 
hands  would  not  reach  out  at  all ;  it  was  a  timid  hand, 
half  hiding  behind  the  little  woolly  sheepskin  coat, 
with  its  rows  of  brass  buttons,  its  stripes,  its  braids, 


152  MISCELLANIES. 

and  its  trinkets  about  the  breast  and  over  the  shoul 
ders — a  hand  full  of  dimples,  and  dirty,  too,  no  doubt, 
but  the  shyest  and  sweetest  little  hand  that  ever 
reached  out  and  touched  any  man's  heart  and  opened 
his  pocket,  took  out  all  the  pennies,  and  made  the 
man  glad  to  give  them. 


A  Picture. 

THE  moon  kept  climbing  and  climbing,  and  peep 
ing  in  and  peering  over,  till  it  looked  right  straight 
down  on  the  group  of  gathered  worshippers  kneeling 
under  the  shadow  of  the  great  black  cross,  and  made 
a  picture  that  any  man  might  remember,  to  carry 
with  him  around  the  world,  hang  on  the  walls  of  his 
heart,  and  wear  it  there!  And  though  fire  and  flood 
might  sweep  away  all  that  he  possessed  in  the  world, 
still  that  picture  would  remain  and  rest  and  refresh 
its  possessor,  whenever  he  chose  to  open  his  heart  and 
look  in  again. 

More  than  Beautiful. 

How  beautiful  she  was !  Ah,  how  more  than  beau 
tiful!  The  rose  and  sea-shell  color  of  her  face  and 
neck,  the  soft  baby  complexion,  the  sweet  surprise  on 
her  face,  the  old  expression  of  inquiry  and  longing, 
the  lips  pushed  out  and  pouting  full  and  as  longing 
for  love,  the  mouth  half  open  as  if  to  ask  you  the  way 
into  some  great  brave  heart,  where  she  could  enter  in 
and  sit  down  and  rest,  as  in  some  sacred  temple. 


Be  Silent  and  Let  God  Speak. 

How  few  people  have  the  good  sense  to  sit  silent  in 
the  carriage  as  they  drive  through  the  groves,  and  let 
God  speak ! 


MISCELLANIES.  153 


None  Utterly  Bad. 

No  man  is  utterly  bad.  Set  this  down  as  one  of 
the  great  truths  which  the  world  does  not  understand 
at  all.  Every  man  has  a  great  deal  of  good  in  his 
heart;  every  man  on  earth  has  this.  Only  in  some  it 
is  so  far,  so  very  far  hidden  away  that  we  never  can 
find  it.  It  was  waiting  the  resurrection.  It  is  the  bit 
of  gold  in  the  bottom  of  the  mine,  away  down  in  the 
dark  bottom. 


Honor. 

WERE  you  to  ask  me  what  I  deemed  the  first  requi 
site  to  happiness,  I  would  answer:  A  high  sense  of 
honor !  Were  you  to  ask  me  what  I  deemed  the  three 
things  necessary  to  make  a  perfect  man,  I  should  an 
swer  :  In  the  first  place,  honor ;  in  the  second  place, 
honor  ;  in  the  third  place,  HONOR  ! 

Were  I  a  lecturer,  a  minister,  a  public  speaker  of 
any  kind,  I  would  make  it  my  mission  to  teach  this 
one  lesson,  and  this  alone,  to  America.  Alas!  That 
which  made  Greece  the  marvel  of  the  earth  may  now 
be  counted  as  among  the  lost  arts.  You  take  lessons 
in  French,  in  art,  literature — a  thousand  things ;  but 
that  high  sense  of  honor,  man's  obligations  to  man,  is 
forgotten.  That  highest  of  all  philosophy  which 
Socrates  taught  is  now  never  thought  of. 


Love  of  the  Beautiful. 

IF  you  were  not  born  with  an  appreciation,  a  wor 
ship  of  the  beautiful,  then  go  and  learn  it,  as  you 
learn  mathematics,  language,  philosophy;  study  it 
every  day — when  you  walk,  when  you  ride,  when  you 
rest  by  the  roadside.  The  flight  of  a  bird  gracefully 
drooping,  curving,  whirling  through  the  air;  the 


154  MISCELLANIES. 

shape  and  tint  of  a  single  autumn  leaf ;  the  movement 
and  the  voice  of  the  wind  in  the  forest ;  a  deep,  rolling 
river  between  its  leaning  banks  of  trees ;  the  sweet, 
curled  moon  in  the  heavens ;  the  still,  far  stars  ;  the 
movement  of  a  proud,  pure  woman  as  she  walks,  the 
graceful  lift  of  her  little  foot,  the  dimpled  hand,  the 
delicious,  rounded  wrist,  the  proud  development,  the 
lifted  face,  the  lovely  lifted  face  as  it  looks  into  space 
for  God.  Oh !  if  you  love  not  these,  I  pity  you ;  in 
deed  I  do. 

If  you  were  to  ask  me  where  I  thought  the  greatest 
happiness  was  to  be  found — I  mean  pure,  sweet  and 
inexpressible  delight — I  should  say :  in  the  love  of  the 
beautiful. 

If  you  will  take  the  pains  to  consider  this  a  mo 
ment — and  you  ought  to  give  it  years  of  considera 
tion — you  will  find  that  all  things  are  beautiful,  or 
trying  to  be  beautiful ;  the  whole  earth,  all  things  on 
the  earth  or  in  the  sea ;  everything  is  struggling,  all 
the  time,  for  some  expression  of  beauty.  The  law  of 
the  beautiful  is  as  general  and  as  absolute  as  the  law 
of  gravitation.  You  may  drop  the  vilest  piece  of 
earth  on  the  roadside  as  you  pass  by.  You  come 
along  next  year  and  you  will  find  it  is  giving  some 
expression  of  beauty  in  little  flowers,  tall,  strange 
weeds,  or  moss  that  lifts  a  thousand  perfect  spangles 
from  out  its  velvet  carpet. 

Yet  you  cannot  come  to  love  the  beautiful  in  a  day. 
The  worship  of  Nature  is  sweet.  But  Nature  is  a 
jealous  God.  You  shall  not  rush  into  her  temples 
with  soiled  hands  and  benumbed  soul,  and  rest  and  be 
glad.  She  will  cast  you  out  if  you  attempt  it.  You 
must  take  off  your  shoes  as  you  enter  the  Mosque  of 
Constantinople,  and  bow  your  head  and  be  silent. 
How  much  more  glorious  are  the  temples  of  Nature  ? 
Democratic  as  she  is,  she  must  have  at  least  some 
thing  of  the  respect  you  pay  to  the  temples  of  man. 
You  must  pass  into  her  temple  by  degrees.  Why,  it 
is  a  half  life's  journey  to  her  heart  from  the  outer 
door,  where  you  must  leave  your  shoes  as  you  enter. 


MISCELLANIES.  155 


Reputation. 

You  must  keep  your  record  of  honor  only  with 
yourself  and  your  God.  The  testimony  of  your  neigh 
bor  about  yourself  will  not  satisfy  your  own  conscience 
at  all.  Eeputation  is  hardly  the  kind  of  testimony,  I 
think,  that  is  used  in  the  Court  of  the  Eternal.  News 
paper  paragraphs  are  not  evidence  in  courts  of  law  or 
equity,  even  on  earth.  Do  not  expect  them  to  be 
evidence  in  heaven. 

I  believe  that  men  have  gone  straight  from  the  gal 
lows  to  God  with  the  whole  world  howling  condemna 
tion  at  their  heels.  I  believe  that  men  have  died  with 
the  reputation  of  saints,  and  yet  have  groaned  in  their 
souls  as  they  died,  deceived  the  world  even  in  death, 
and  have  gone  straight  to  the  abode  of  the  damned. 


Baby-world. 

THEEE  must  be  in  the  vast  and  incomprehensible 
system  of  stars  one  star  further  away  than  all  others — 
one  star  on  the  outermost  edge — one  farthest  star  on 
which  the  tired  imagination  might  sit  and  look  be 
yond,  and  see  only  the  open  void  and  vacant  blue. 
But  astronomists  say  not. 

Did  ever  you  try  to  fix  and  define  the  outer  and  the 
utmost  limit  of  memory  ?  Try  it.  It  is  amusing,  to 
say  the  least.  Baby-world  is  the  wonder  world.  You 
remember  your  first  word;  the  first  step  you  took, 
perhaps.  Your  big  brother's  complaints  and  your 
sweet  mother's  praise  ;  your  first  pants ;  and  it  is  just 
possible  that  away  back  there  among  the  ruins  of  the 
dead  years  you  may  in  a  day  of  singular  clearness  posi 
tively  stumble  over  your  own  cradle.  It  is  like  finding 
a  new  wall  under  old  Troy.  And  then  the  beautiful, 
blushing  girls  that  came  trooping  in  upon  you  all  the 
time  in  that  tender  age.  And  how  they  did  muss  you, 


156  MISCELLANIES. 

and  fuss  over  you,  and  kiss  you  every  day,  till  you 
cried  out  with  suffocation.  But,  alas !  now  that  you 
are  in  no  danger  of  suffocation,  they  come  not  any 
more.  Surely  we  were  nearer  heaven  then  than  now. 


General  Custer. 

WHEN  the  world  stood  dumb  with  wonder, 
When  the  land  lay  torn  asunder, 
And  the  smoke  of  battle's  thunder 
Boiled  from  out  the  rift  and  rents, 
Wreathing,  wrapping  battle-tents, 
Where  the  giants  march  and  muster, 
Mounting  columns,  regiments, 
Through  the  battle's  storm  and  bluster 
Rose  and  rode  the  gentle  Custer. 

"Where  is  Custer?"  came  the  cry, 
When  men  met  to  do  or  die, 
Where  is  Custer  ?    Cannon's  rattle 
From  the  blazing  bank  of  battle, 
Booming,  booming,  answer  back, 
"  Lo  !  af ront  the  rush  and  rattle, 
Riding  down  Death's  battle-track, 
Sword  in  hand,  and  hair  blown  back, 
Lo !  a  boy  leads  men  to  battle ! " 

The  long  strong  grasses  bend  the  head 
In  patient  pity  o'er  the  dead — 
In  brother's  pity^  for  the  brave 
Three  hundred  in  their  Spartan  grave — 
In  mother's  pity  for  the  true 
And  country-loving,  tawny  Sioux, 
Perchance  in  ghostland  once  again 
They  meet  along  the  lawless  plain, 
And  rove  with  driving  winds  and  rain. 


MISCELLANIES.  157 

0  Ouster  and  thy  comrades,  where 
Have  ye  pitched  tent  in  fields  of  air 
Above  the  Kocky  Mountain's  brow, 
In  everlasting  glory  now  ? 
Ye  shine  like  some  high  shaft  of  light, 
Ye  march  above  the  bounds  of  night, 
And  some  stray  singer  yet  shall  rise 
And  lift  your  glory  to  the  skies 
In  some  grand  song  of  wild  delight. 


The  Capitol  at  Washington. 

GRANITE  and  marble  and  granite ! 

Corridor,  column  and  dome. 
A  Capitol,  huge  as  a  planet, 

And  mighty  as  marble-built  Eome ! 

Stair-steps  of  granite  to  glory  ! 

Go  up,  with  thy  face  to  the  sun  ; 
They  are  stained  with  the  footsteps  and  story 

Of  giants  and  battles  well  won. 


True  Merit. 

No  man  need  stilt  himself  up,  or  seek  applause,  or 
friends  in  high  places,  or  loud  praise.  If  he  belongs 
to  the  front  he  will  get  there  in  time,  and  will  remain 
there  when  he  arrives. 


Noses. 

SMALL  noses  are  a  failure.  This  is  the  verdict  of 
history.  Give  me  a  man,  or  woman  either,  with  a  big 
nose — not  a  nose  of  flesh,  or  a  loose  flabby  nose  like  a 


158  MISCELLANIES. 

camel's  lips ;  not  a  thin,  starved  nose  that  the  eyes 
have  crowded  out  and  forced  into  prominence,  but  a 
full,  strong,  substantial  nose,  that  is  willing  and  able 
to  take  the  lead ;  one  that  asserts  itself  boldly  between 
the  eyes,  and  reaches  up  toward  the  brows,  and  has 
room  enough  to  sit  down  there  and  be  at  home.  Give 
me  a  man,  or  woman  either,  with  a  nose  like  that,  and 
I  will  have  a  nose  that  will  accomplish  something.  I 
grant  you  that  such  a  nose  may  be  a  knave  ;  but  it  is 
never  a  coward  nor  a  fool — never. 


The  New  Parnassus. 

SOMEWHERE  in  these  Sierras  will  they  name  the 
new  Parnassus.  The  nine  sisters,  in  the  far  New 
Day,  will  have  their  habitation  here,  when  the  gold 
hunter  has  gone  away,  and  the  last  pick  lies  rusting  in 
the  mine.  The  sea  of  seas  shall  rave  and  knock  at 
the  Golden  Gate,  but  this  shall  be  the  vine-land,  the 
place  of  rest,  that  the  old  Greeks  sought  forever  to 
find.  This  will  be  the  land  of  eternal  afternoon.  A 
land  born  of  storm  and  rounded  into  shape  by  the 
blows  of  hardy  and  enduring  men,  it  shall  have  its 
reaction — its  rest.  The  great  singer  of  the  future, 
born  of  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  gloomy  forests  of 
the  Sierras,  shall  some  day  swing  his  harp  in  the  wind 
and  move  down  these  watered  and  wooded  slopes  to 
conquer  the  world  with  a  song  for  Peace. 


Tears. 

TEARS  flow  as  freely  for  joy  as  for  grief.  Between 
intense  delight  or  deepest  sorrow  the  wall  is  so  thin 
you  can  whisper  through  it  and  be  heard. 


MISCELLANIES.  159 


A  Race  for  Love  and  Life. 

Two  tawny  men,  tall,  brown  and  thewed 
Like  antique  bronzes  rarely  seen, 
Shot  up  like  flame.     She  stood  between 
Like  fixed,  impassive  fortitude. 
Then  one  threw  robes  with  sullen  air, 
And  wound  red  fox-tails  in  his  hair, 
But  one  with  face  of  proud  delight 
Entwined  a  crest  of  snowy  white. 

She  stood  between.     She  sudden  gave 
The  sign,  and  each  impatient  brave 
Shot  sudden  in  the  sounding  wave. 
The  startled  waters  gurgled  round; 
Their  stubborn  strokes  kept  sullen  sound. 

0  then  awoke  the  love  that  slept ! 
O  then  her  heart  beat  loud  and  strong! 
O  then  the  proud  love  pent  up  long 
Broke  forth  in  wail  upon  the  air ; 
And  leaning  there  she  sobbed  and  wept 
With  dark  face  mantled  in  her  hair. 

Now  side  by  side  the  rivals  plied, 
Yet  no  man  wasted  word  or  breath ; 
All  was  as  still  as  stream  of  death. 
Now  side  by  side  their  strength  was  tried, 
And  now  they  breathless  paused  and  lay 
Like  brawny  wrestlers  well  at  bay. 

And  now  they  dived,  dived  long,  and  now 
The  black  heads  lifted  from  the  foam, 
And  shook  aback  the  dripping  brow, 
Then  shouldered  sudden  glances  home. 
And  then  with  burly  front  the  brow 
And  bull-like  neck  shot  sharp  and  blind, 
And  left  a  track  of  foam  behind  .  .  . 
They  near  the  shore  at  last ;  and  now 


160  MISCELLANIES. 

The  foam  flies  spouting  from  a  face 
That  laughing  lifts  from  out  the  race. 

The  race  is  won,  the  work  is  done ! 
She  sees  the  climbing  crest  of  snow  ; 
She  knows  her  tall,  brown  Idaho. 


